


Performance Piece

by fight_knight



Category: Batman: The Animated Series, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Arkham Asylum, Canon-Typical Violence, Hospitals, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Multiverse Shenanigans, Tags May Change, Tim Drake-centric, its a timswap, the tims get swapped
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2020-09-07 02:50:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 61,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20302222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fight_knight/pseuds/fight_knight
Summary: Tim Drake has been doing his best to keep his life together even as it falls apart, trying to be a hero, a businessman, and son to a recently returned from the dead father figure.A few multiverse mishaps later, and he finds himself in another universe, one where Tim Drake has been institutionalised for the past three years, dealing with the mental fallout from his kidnapping and torture by the Joker.Convincing the world that he is of sane mind and body, but also from another universe turns out to be harder than he thought.Comics!Tim and Return of the Joker!Tim switch universes.





	1. Prologue

“I can see that you’ve had a bad day today, so let’s start simple, alright?” The doctor’s tone was level, but forceful enough it cut through the haze in his mind. "Can you tell me your name?"

He didn’t answer, he couldn’t seem to pull his eyes away from a notch in the edge of the table. His arms were heavy on the armrests. He tried to get his hand to move, a twitch of a finger, anything. It stayed limp and useless.

“Your name, can you say it to me out loud?” The doctor was calm, white sterile coat draped over the back of her chair. Which didn’t have armrests, he noticed.

“…Tim.” His voice sounded tired to his own ears. Slow. Exhausted. He couldn’t remember how he got here.

“Good, that’s good. Can you tell me how old you are, Tim?”

He tried to think about it, but every thought he started to have fell away like water. How old was he? He couldn’t remember.

Obviously he was taking too long to respond, because the doctor spoke again. “Tim, how old are you?”

His brow tensed as he tried to think about it. Age came with birthdays, right? When was his last birthday? He hadn’t had any in here, he didn’t think, in this white and cold and sterile room, or any of the white and cold and sterile rooms like it. He tried to think back further, and remembered a warm dining area – expensive and old, but warm. With high-backed chairs and a crystal chandelier and a table set for five. There were people there, and they were smiling, but he tried not to think about them smiling. There was an old man, a kind man, setting a cake down in front of him. How many candles were there? How many candles?

_Make a wish, Tim._

“Where’s Bruce?” Tim asked suddenly.

“Tim, I’d like you to focus on the question for me.” The doctor’s voice stayed very calm. And it was warm, but not like that other place. Not like home. It was too artificial. Sterile. Clean. “Can you tell me your age?”

Tim wasn’t listening, his thoughts were moving faster now but he still couldn’t catch them. There was just panic and his breaths coming too fast and the growing feeling that something was very _very_ wrong.

“Where’s Bruce?” He asked again, a thread of desperation in his voice. He had tried to demand it, but his voice was weak, tired, desperate. “Where’s-“

“Tim.” The doctor’s voice was firm, and something in Tim stilled at the order. “I will tell you everything you want to know, but first you have to answer some questions, okay?”

She seemed to actually want an answer, so Tim nodded, or at least he tried to. His muscles still felt sluggish and numb.

“How old are you?”

He closed his eyes, the table disappeared. He tried his best to think, even though it was hard. He’s pretty sure it wasn’t this hard before.

How many candles?

“… Thirteen.” He said. Thirteen candles, he was sure of it. Because afterwards Bruce got him ice cream on patrol and made bad deadpan jokes about having to deal with a teenager again. Tim remembered thinking he’d make sure not to go the same way Dick had, although now he’s not sure what that meant. He remembered being excited about getting to patrol on his own a few nights a week. It would only be for a few hours, but still.

Then something had happened to Tim. Something bad. And Tim really didn’t want to think about that, but he wasn’t sure why. He had been on his own, confident, because he’d done this a few times now. He could handle a night on his own. And there was a woman in an alley, and she needed help. But she had a hammer, Tim thought, so why would she need help-

“No, Tim.” The doctor interrupted patiently.

“What?” he’d forgotten what they were talking about.

“You’re sixteen, Tim.”

Tim frowned, that didn’t sound right. There were thirteen candles on that cake, he was sure of it. And Bruce said…

“Where’s Bruce?”

_Make a wish, Tim._

There was a sigh from the doctor, and Tim heard the sound of papers being shuffled around. “I can see we aren’t going to get much further, today.”

Tim wasn’t listening, trying to remember the warm heat of the candles, trying to remember what he’d wished for.

“Mr. Pennyworth is here to visit again. Would you like to see him?”

What had he wished for?

There was a scraping noise as the doctor’s chair shifted, then a click as a door opened. A murmured voice, “He’s had a bad day today, the sedatives are still wearing off.” A rustle of cloth shifting, the doctor putting her coat on. “He won’t be very responsive.”

“That’s alright, thank you Dr. Grock.” A new voice, one that felt familiar.

The chair shifted again, and someone else was sitting across from Tim now. Tim knew this man. He was kind, and he came every week.

“Master Tim,” Alfred spoke gently, “How are you feeling?”

Tim forced his eyes up, they weren’t moving without effort, but he wanted to see. Up past the weathered hands that rested on the table, up along the silhouette of an impeccably pressed suit jacket, to meet Alfred’s eyes. He was smiling gently, reassuringly, but the lines around his eyes were so impossibly _sad_. A lump formed in Tim’s throat.

“I can’t remember what I wished for, Alfred.” He whispered.

Alfred’s brow twitched in confusion. Tim tried very hard to keep watching, but his eyes slipped away of their own volition, back down to the white of the table, the white of his clothes, the white of a hospital bracelet around his wrist.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Alfred still spoke gently, like if he talked with any force Tim might break. “Can you tell me what you mean?”

And Tim felt in that moment nothing but a longing for Alfred to hold him. He wanted to bury his face in Alfred’s pressed shirt and breathe in the smell of home. He wanted to reach out, tried with all his might to get his arms to move, but they stayed limp at his sides.

Tim felt a sob worming its way up his throat at the same moment his eyes filled with tears.

“Alfred,” his breath hitched, “Something’s wrong.”

And it was. He couldn’t think, he couldn’t move, and looking at Alfred only served to add an acute sort of misery to his growing panic. Everything was falling away and he couldn’t catch it.

“Something’s wrong,” He begged, not able to vocalize a feeling that grew in his chest and grabbed hold of his throat. A feeling of drowning, a feeling of _help me_.

_Make a wish, Tim_.

“Master Tim, it’s alright-“

“Where’s Bruce?”

Alfred seemed to pause at this, and there was a silence – a deafening one, a muffling one – that Tim wanted to fill with a scream. With a shout. With a laugh.

“I’ve told you already,” Alfred said softly, somehow sounding more sad than before, “He’ll come soon. This is… it’s very difficult for him. But he will.”

There was a thought that didn’t slip away this time, and Tim clung to it with all his strength. _I want my dad, _he thought, _I want my dad._ He opened his mouth, _I want my dad I want my dad I want my dad I want - _“Something’s wrong, Alfred.”

“I know, Master Tim, I know. But that’s why you have to stay here, so that these people can help you. They know how to help you.” Tim never wanted to hear Alfred this close to tears. 

“Can I go home?”

Tim saw in his peripheral as Alfred shook his head,

“No, not quite yet.”

Tim tried his best to breathe, he didn’t remember it being this hard. “How old am I, Alfred?”

A silence. Tim did his best not to laugh. It turned into an aborted cough.

“Well, that’s why I came early this week, Master Tim.” Alfred explained, “You turned sixteen just this morning.” He took Tim’s silence as a sign to continue. “I’ve brought you a gift, from all of us. Master Dick and Miss Gordon… they all wanted to be here, but it seems my presence will have to be enough, for today.”

Something was placed on the table in front of Tim.

“Unfortunately the staff unwrapped it already, as part of their safety procedures, and I’ve been told you can’t keep it in your room with you but…” He trailed off. “But this will have to be enough, I suppose.”

Tim tried to get his vision to focus on the thing in front of him. He recognized it as a picture in a frame. The faces stayed blurry, but he knew who they were. There was a feeling of familiarity, even though their names slipped away from him. Bruce was the only one not smiling for the photo.

Tim must’ve dropped off a little, because between one moment and the next, the doctor was back in the room, speaking in low tones to Alfred. Then Alfred was in front of him, Tim’s chair had been moved so Alfred could kneel and take one of Tim’s hands in his.

“I’m afraid I have to leave now, but I’ll be back next week. I promise.”

“Can I go back with you?”

Alfred shook his head again, “No, I’m sorry. You’re sick now, Master Tim, and you have to stay here until you get better.”

Tim tried to hold Alfred’s hand properly, but only succeeded in getting a few fingers to curl. “When will I be better?”

Alfred pursed his lips. “Soon,” He said, “Quite soon, I hope.”

“You said that last time.” And the sentence was so habitual Tim didn’t even have to think about it. He wondered how many times they’d had this exchange.

“And I hope you’ll allow me to say it once more.” Alfred responded, a small sad smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Alfred left, then, before Tim could remember to ask for a hug.

Then someone wheeled Tim down a hallway, and someone else lifted him onto a bed. It was almost like when he’d pretend to fall asleep in the Batmobile, and Bruce would carry him up to his room. Almost. Except the arms holding him were impersonal, and the bed under him was starchy and white, and his room at the manor didn’t have an observation window bolted into one wall.

Tim didn’t have the photo anymore, he didn’t know where they’d taken it. But he closed his eyes tight and tried very hard to remember what it looked like, to remember the warmth in their smiles, the familiar planes and angles of their faces, to remember what it was like to be with them.

He curled up on the bed and held Bruce’s stern and warm and stoic expression like a lifeline in his mind.

_Make a wish, Tim._

And he buried his face into a thin pillowcase and he brought his still-clumsy hands up to his mouth and whispered to the numb fingertips,

“I wish, I wish, I wish.”


	2. Lab Safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New universe, different Tim. feat Stephanie Brown as the voice of reason.

In another time, another place, another life, Tim Drake was parking his motorcycle. It had taken a surprising amount of finagling and paperwork to get this reserved stall, even despite his considerable position within Wayne Enterprises, so now he got a small rush of satisfaction every time he pulled up.

Not that it would’ve mattered, no employee in their right minds would be coming to work this late at night. The parking garage was virtually empty.

Tim dug his phone out of his pocket – it ruined the lines of his suit, but he wasn’t about to keep it in a briefcase – and hit the number he rarely called with any frequency anymore, but still kept on speed dial. Mostly because taking her off speed-dial would say more than leaving her on. The receiver at the other end clicked.

“I need you to take on some of my patrol route tonight.” He said, pressing the call button for the elevator.

“Your greeting has officially gotten zero points from the judges table. ‘Hi Steph’, would be a better start, ‘how are you, Steph? You beautiful, stunningly brilliant babe?’ And I would respond with something humble yet confident, and we could improvise from there.” Her tone was mocking, Tim rolled his eyes, watching the display over the elevator count down to the parkade.

“It’s not much,” He said, “Just a drug bust down at the docks and some recon on Penguin. Everything else should be fine until tomorrow.”

“Uh huh,” Steph intoned. There was a faint click of a pen. Tim wondered what she was working on, whether it was casework or schoolwork. He didn’t know a lot about what she got up to nowadays. “What’s Penguin been doing that’s gotten you so suspicious?”

“Nothing.” There was a ding, “Listen – I’m about to get in an elevator, I’ll call you back.”

“Take the stairs. Why did you call me right before you were about to get in an elevator?”

Tim held the door open with one hand, “Honestly I wasn’t expecting our conversation to last this long. I’ll call you back.”

“Oh I’m sorry for taking up so much of your precious time. If you actually hang up on me I’m not going to pick up again. You can take the stairs like a big boy.”

Tim frowned in irritation, but let the doors close anyway, instead using his key card to get up the stairs. Steph kept talking.

“Seriously, what’s Penguin been up to?"

“I already told you – nothing.” His voice echoed strangely in the concrete stairwell.

“Sounds like the opposite of a problem.”

“He’s been too quiet lately, which means he’s probably up to something. I just don’t know what it is yet.” A touch of irritation bled into his voice, “I just want you to do some recon, it’s not that difficult.”

She definitely got offended by that, “Oh, so I’ll be sure not to screw it up, is that what you’re saying?”

Tim stopped in the stairwell, a familiar pinch forming between his eyebrows, “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I just-“

“Ever consider Penguin is keeping quiet because he’s keeping up the terms of his probation? Turning a new leaf and all that?”

“I wouldn’t hold my breath,” Tim muttered, “We can’t afford to give everyone the benefit of the doubt anymore, you should know that.”

“Benefit of the doubt is sort of in a hero’s job description.”

“This isn’t about being a hero, it’s about stopping bad things from happening before they happen. Based on his past, Penguin is a permanent person of interest as far as I’m concerned.” Tim held the railing a little tighter, waiting for her to argue.

“As far as _I’m_ concerned,” here it comes, “You’re being paranoid. And weirdly generous about sharing your cases. What’s got you so busy you can’t stalk him yourself?”

Tim huffed in annoyance. Of course she had to ask about the one thing he didn’t want to talk about.

His lack of response prompted a, “Tim?”

He mumbled something into the receiver.

“What?”

“I got benched, okay?” He said, resuming his trek up the stairs.

Stephanie laughed, “Damn, what’d you do to piss off daddy-bats?”

“Nothing.”

“Uh huh.”

“I’m serious, I didn’t do anything.” Tim huffed, “He wanted me to take the night off. For my birthday.”

Silence. Tim waited.

“Oh shit, you’re sixteen today. I totally forgot.”

Tim cut her off before she could do something like apologize, “Yeah, I did too. So did Bruce – he was fine with me going out until Alfred reminded him.”

“Damn you should’ve told me,” Steph said, “We could’ve like… hung out, or something.”

“You shouldn’t have to spend time with me just because of that. Like I said, I forgot too. Bruce forced me off patrol because he’s feeling some misplaced guilt for forgetting about it. It’s not a big deal, I don’t know why he wants to make it into one.” Tim reached his floor and opened the door with a bang. The halls were empty, but still brightly lit with fluorescents.

“It kind of is a big deal though. I made Bruce rent out the country club for my sixteenth.”

“I know. I was there,” Tim reminded.

“Yeah, for like two seconds before you bailed to hang out with Kite Man.”

“I wasn’t hanging out with him,” Tim argued, “There was a bomb threat.”

There was a distorted static from the speaker as Steph sighed dramatically, “I still can’t believe I’m a lower priority than Kite Man. That’s like, the ultimate insult I think.”

Tim scanned his key card to get into the lab and did his best to change the subject, “Aren’t birthdays supposed to matter less the older you get?”

“Sure, when you’re in your _forties_. This is your sweet sixteen! You’d better be actually taking the night off like Bats told you to. Like, I hate agreeing with him, I think my body physically rejects the idea, but you never do anything fun anymore.”

“I can be fun.” Tim insisted

“Tell that to Kite Man and his ‘bomb threat’.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Oh yeah, where are you right now?”

“… At my apartment.” Tim lied, “Watching TV.”

“What show?”

“Golden Girls reruns.” He flipped on the lights in the lab. Even if Bruce had banned him from patrol, there were always a few side projects that could use his attention.

“Do I seriously need to remind you that your apartment doesn’t have a TV?”

Shit.

“Or cable, for that matter.”

“Look, can you take my patrol route or not?” Tim snapped.

“Alright, fine.” Steph sighed again, “I’ll even creep on Oswald for you. But you owe me.”

“I know.” Tim said, he owed her a lot more than this, and he knew it. “Thanks, Steph. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Steph said, “We’ll go out for a belated sweet sixteen tomorrow. I haven’t seen you in forever.”

Before Tim could respond, she made an exaggerated kissy noise into the phone and hung up. He let out a breath and pocketed it. That took way more time than he’d estimated.

He continued into the Research and Development lab. A wide room with high industrial ceilings – considering the amount of things that tended to explode in this room, keeping it bare-bones was the most cost-effective design. His shoe soles tapped on the concrete floor, echoing strangely around the room. He made his way to station 24B, the real beauty of the operation.

Tim had had a hand in this project since its inception. Some intern with big ideas had tried to get approval from the board for a communication device that could span multiple universes. It was shot down, obviously, because even if there was a way to make it happen, there was just no way it could be marketable. And Wayne Enterprises was a business, first and foremost.

But Tim, having far too many up close and personal run-ins with the multiverse and its various crises, couldn’t let this one go. If _only_ they’d had something like this when something was threatening multiple worlds. If only there was some way to communicate – to broadcast when there was some kind of multiverse level threat on the rise.

Tim wasn’t going to pass up an opportunity to prepare for the worst. He’d spent far too long getting fucked over by Murphy’s law, and he wasn’t about to let it happen again. Not if he could help it.

Powering on the computer, Tim surveyed the machine. It was clunky, sure. Only a prototype. Half the tech was alien, giving its conical shape a bit of a Frankenstein appearance. It wasn’t large, roughly as tall as Tim was, because their equipment in this instance didn’t depend on picking up radio waves. Quantum communication really was more economical, in terms of size at least. Maybe not in actual price.

A low hum picked up as the machine whirred to life, steady vibrations sending tremors through Tim’s shoes. The team had come a long way since he’d last seen it, he skimmed over the data absently, trying to remember exactly when that was. His sleep cycle was less of a pattern and more of a scatterplot. It made keeping track of things like time a little tough.

So far there hadn’t been any successes throughout the various trials, but it was still promising. The signal was broadcasting, at least, they knew that much. There just hadn’t been an answer back yet.

Tim squinted a little at the lines of code on the computer screen. Sometimes his vision went blurry after being awake so long. The machine wasn’t picking up a return signal so far, or attempts at communication of any kind, which was disappointing. One would think that in the vast infinity of the multiverse, someone else might have the same general idea.

Tim frowned. Maybe the problem wasn’t in the scope of the search, but rather the _kind_ of signal they were looking for. Of course no one would be trying to have a casual chat on a quantum communication device. No one would call for help from the multiverse if they weren’t absolutely desperate.

He leaned over the computer, adding a few lines of code. Distress signals, emergency beacons, anything, really. This machine was supposed to help those in need, after all. It just had to find the needy.

Planting himself in the lumpy swivel chair, and making a note to upgrade the laboratory office furniture (somebody had to sit in this thing eight hours a day, jesus), he put his feet up and updated the signal. The machine hum displayed a barely perceptible change in pitch, but otherwise stayed unchanged.

Tim stared up at the high industrial ceiling, waiting. Theoretically it shouldn’t take any time at all to pick up on _something_, but he was still going to give it a few minutes. Then, after his head began listing to the side only for him to jerk awake again for the third time, Tim planted his feet back on the gently humming floor, debated standing and walking and moving his legs, decided wheeled chairs were invented for a reason, and kicked off. He spun in a lazy and ungraceful circle around the machine, watching it with a bored eye as if it might change color or start beeping or something. Most machines did, when shit got interesting.

It was on his fourth lap that he noticed it, and stopped the chair. Still refusing to walk now that he’d sat down, Tim shuffled the chair closer to the machine. Out of the center, like a couple of geometric trees, sprang a few metal coils, becoming thinner and more delicate the further they got from the base. And one, the left one, had been shifted ever so slightly out of place.

“Seriously?” Tim grumbled, and lifted a hand to move the coil back into its original position. Any self-respecting or even slightly cautious lab technician would’ve suggested using a pair of pliers or other instrument, something more in the realm of ‘literally anything but your bare fucking hands, Tim’. But they weren’t there at the moment, and even if they were, probably wouldn’t have had time to say anything before the steady hum rose very rapidly and aggressively in volume, and in a great flash of… something – not necessarily light, although it was blinding – the hum was suddenly back down to only a slight grumble, and Tim Drake was gone. And there was only an empty office chair, spinning slowly in his wake.

~

Tim used to have this English teacher, Mr. Joey, and to this day maintains that Mr. Joey was a key factor in his dropping out of high school. It wasn’t that Mr. Joey came to class late every day, because Tim did that too. It wasn’t that Mr. Joey’s favorite lunch was some kind of goat cheese and garlic olfactoral monstrosity that he only ever seemed to eat while teaching Tim’s class specifically, even though it was 2nd period and nowhere near lunch break. It wasn’t that Mr. Joey would regularly pull Tim aside and ask “How you doing, champ?” in that obligatorily concerned way after his dad died.

It was the goddamn plastic bag monologue.

One day Mr. Joey sat the whole class down and said, “I’m going to show you all the most powerful piece of cinema in the world.”

Neither Tim, nor any one of his fellow sleep-deprived and miserable classmates expected much.

The video was only three minutes, but it felt like a lifetime. Tim had never seen the movie American Beauty, despite how many people told him it was a classic, and he didn’t intend to. Especially not after watching three and a half minutes of some guy monologue about the hidden beauty of trash in the wind.

It was because Mr. Joey was from Montana, Tim had reasoned to Bruce later, when they had taken a break from a case to eat Alfred’s cucumber sandwiches. Mr. Joey didn’t grow up in Gotham, he’d never had to deal with the likes of Scarecrow or Two-Face or the Joker. Bruce had grunted in response – looking back Tim was pretty sure he hadn’t been listening, probably thinking about the recent double suicide they’d both labeled highly suspicious – but Tim kept on anyway. Of course Mr. Joey would find that kind of philosophical self-aggrandizing tripe inspiring, Tim had complained, he hasn’t seen what the world does about hidden beauty.

Because, if you looked at it realistically, the world wasn’t beautiful, not even close. Especially not Gotham. No citizen of Gotham would spend even a second contemplating something like a plastic bag in the wind. That kind of nonsense is what got you looking up instead of ducking for cover when the bat signal went up. It’s what got you pegged as an easy target. It was the kind of saccharine sentiment that was about as flimsy as tissue paper, and got crumpled under Gotham’s cold and ruthless boot of reality.

It was exactly the kind of thing Tim would’ve thought about when he was nine years old and nothing but a kid with a camera who believed in heroes. Who believed they would make the world beautiful.

And Tim still believed in heroes, like he always had. He was one now, after all. But the world – Gotham, wasn’t beautiful. Could never _be_ beautiful. Not even if you scrubbed at it with a sponge and a thousand gallons of bleach. All you could do was try to stop people from making it even more of a mess.

But Tim hadn’t been thinking about Gotham at the time. He’d been struggling to keep his eyes open, even though the only visually stimulating thing about the video was the bag itself, getting tossed back and forth by the wind. He fantasized about finally graduating as the camera tracked the bag back and forth, side to side without any real rhyme, reason or pattern. He started getting a little nauseous just looking at it.

_Sucks to be the bag,_ Tim had thought absently.

And now, because fate was a bitch like that, Tim was the bag.

What felt like gale winds were attacking him full-force, and the ground - if there had been any to speak of – was nonexistent. His eyes had slammed shut against the bright flash of light – the ghost of it still imprinted against his eyelids – and the pushing pulling shoving air forced him to keep it that way. He was battered one way and the other, and couldn’t get enough of a handle on gravity to fight against it. He flung his arms out in desperation, trying to find his balance or a grip or _something, _anything, but his fingers closed around air.

And the only thing he could think about was that _stupid_ plastic bag video.

He realized, belatedly, that someone was screaming. It wasn’t him.

He opened his mouth to speak or call out or _something_ but was hit with the invisible force again, and subsequently gut-punched with a…

A feeling.

A feeling that wasn’t his.

But it made his lungs stop and his blood grow cold because there was so _much_ happening all at once and he couldn’t deal with it all. A horrifying, heart-stopping terror filled his throat, and spilled over into confusion, which bled back into terror again and then pooled into a strange and hopeful feeling of relief. Tim tried very hard to get his eyes to open, open fucking _open_ and then-

It was like somebody had flipped the gravity back on, and he hit the ground with a thud.

He sucked in a breath like he’d just come up for air, and immediately choked on his own spit. Coughing, he rolled to the side, pressing his forehead against the carpet and trying to reorient himself. The carpet, it turned out, was his first clue that something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

The floors at the research and development lab were concrete.

Unfortunately, Tim couldn’t interrogate this discrepancy further, because he had apparently chosen this moment to vomit all over the mysterious carpet. He hadn’t had much of a lunch anyway, but stomach bile and red bull still made a hell of a combo for his nose. He nearly retched again, but held it in, physically pressing a hand to his mouth. There was muffled noise, something that came from behind a wall, and then a jangle of keys in a lock.

Tim realized his Wayne Enterprises suit was gone at the same moment the door swung open. Somebody grabbed his shoulders and pulled him away from the puddle of puke. Too disoriented to properly fight back, he tried to focus as someone pulled his hand away from his mouth, as someone else wiped it with a damp cloth, as he was placed and then shoved and then arranged into a wheelchair. Voices talked around him.

“Is this a reaction to the sedative?”

“How should I know, Penny? I’m the night staff, I wasn’t there when he went and tried to kill his guard again or whatever.”

Tim’s wrist was grabbed roughly, the hospital bracelet inspected. When did he get a hospital bracelet?

“It’s supposed to _say_ if he has any allergies.”

“Well, obviously they missed something. Let’s just get him to a new room, he needs to sleep it off.” And then, in a lower voice, “And I don’t want to spend any more time getting up close and personal.”

Tim’s hand was lowered to the arm rest, where he belatedly realized were outfitted with padded restraints.

He snatched his hand away and tried to get out of the chair, the hand returned to his wrist, tighter this time, and someone else started pushing him back down. “Wait-” He used his free hand to grab at the person holding him in the chair, fully intending to introduce the man’s nose with his forehead, when,

“Tim, you need to relax, okay?”

He paused. These people didn’t know him as Red Robin. And all it took was that tiny sliver of a second of hesitation before they were on him again, and they were securing his wrists to the chair.

“Wait! Wait stop, _stop_!” Tim shouted, and was soundly ignored. “What are you doing? Stop!”

“You’ve had a long day, Tim. We’re taking you to a new room so that they can clean this one.” The artificial calmness of the voice sent up red flags all around. The two were behind the chair now, they were dressed in hospital scrubs. One began pushing the wheelchair towards the door.

Tim had been trained to, upon waking up in an unfamiliar environment, evaluate his surroundings quickly and efficiently and plan any further action based on that. But his heart was still pounding with the aftershocks of a feeling that wasn’t his. Definitely not his. But he’d felt it anyway. Terror. Blood-stopping, hysterical panic.

Focus, Tim.

He looked around frantically, the people in scrubs and the wheelchair and the bracelet said _hospital_. As did the smell of blood and antiseptic. The restraints said something else. But they knew his name – they knew his _name_. This wasn’t some villainous plot against Red Robin, this was something to do with Tim Drake. His mind whirred and skipped. He couldn’t figure it out.

And then they left the room, and a long windowless hallway stretched out before him. Cold and clean and far _far_ too familiar. He’d been here before. Never in these clothes and never in a chair, usually to drop someone off or meet an inmate. There was usually echoes of laughter coming faintly from a faraway room. These halls were dead silent, but in every other way they were the same.

“Where am I?” He asked, his voice suddenly hoarse. He didn’t need to ask, he already knew. But the question came unbidden. It needed to be asked like the girl in the horror movie needed to check behind the shower curtain.

The chair stopped in a room nearly identical to the last. Stark white, impersonal, windowless except for the dark observation window in the wall. There was a bed, that was it.

“You’ve been here for nearly three years, Tim.” Came the response. Still calm and impersonal. Cautious, maybe. “You should know that by now.”

One of the staff had moved to stand by the open door, the other came around to the front of the chair, beginning to undo the restraints on the chair. She didn’t meet his gaze, seeming hurried. Like she didn’t want to be in the same room as him when he wasn’t tied down. Strands of hair fell out of her messy bun.

He didn’t want to say it, because it didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.

“Arkham.” Came out in a whisper.

“Yes.” Her response was nonchalant. Casual. Calm. “That’s right, Tim.” Condescending.

“No,” He refused, “No – you don’t understand, I’m not supposed to be here.”

“Do you need to throw up again or use the bathroom before morning?” That tone of voice was really frying his nerves.

“Listen, there’s been some kind of mistake-“

“I need verbal confirmation, Tim. Otherwise we’re going to have to wheel you out and do this whole thing again.”

Tim’s heart was racing in his chest, _what the hell was going on_? He tried again, “No, _listen_-“

“Okay, you know the drill here. Stay in the chair until I’m five paces away, then you get up and stand by the wall, I’ll take the chair off your hands and someone will be back with it in the morning.” She rubbed her face, seeming tired.

Tim went ahead and pushed up out of the chair right then and there, “No! _Listen_ to me-!”

She and the other staff member at the door reacted fast, but adrenaline was singing through his veins and at this point he couldn’t give a shit whether Red Robin was appropriate here or not. Everything about this was _wrong_. He _wasn’t supposed to be here._ He surged upward, deflecting her reaching hands and connecting his elbow with her side. The other one tried to grab him from behind, but Tim got a grip on his arm and flipped the guy over his shoulder. Without leaving any time for them to recover, Tim raced for the still-open door, nothing in his mind but a blaring red alert shouting _get out get out get the fuck out_.

He was barely a step from the door when two white-hot pinpricks of pain hit his back, and suddenly he was on the floor and pain was lancing through his body. Tim had been tazed before, a couple unfortunate times, but it was a hard thing to prepare for. And harder to deal with. Mostly he admonished himself for being stupid enough to try to _run_ out of Arkham.

Arkham. Where he’d apparently been for the past three years.

_Well _that_ doesn’t add up, _he thought, before losing consciousness entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> American Beauty is actually a really good movie I just needed to show off Tim's more cynical current worldview.
> 
> Also I'll mention now that pretty much every side character is named after various famous clowns, since name generation is hard and also I consume dramatic irony for power.
> 
> Dr. Grock from previous and future chapters is named after Charles Wettach, who adopted the name "Grock" in 1903. He did a lot of pantomime and slapstick routines, and was called the "king of clowns".
> 
> Mr Joey is from Joseph "Joey" Grimaldi who acted in various theatre performances and acts throughout most of the 1800s.
> 
> And the name Penny is a shortening of Pennywise from Stephen King's "It".


	3. Arkham: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim wakes up in Arkham, and tries very hard to convince people that he shouldn't be there.

God, waking up was a bitch. The groggy disorientation, dry mouth, and general hatred for everything in the world including himself made sleep seem more like a chore than anything. Which was part of the reason Tim avoided it as much as possible. He tried to open his eyes, wincing at the grittiness there. He went to scrub the sand away and found that he couldn’t, which turned out to be the least of his problems.

“Now Tim, do you remember when we talked about following instructions?”

New voice, new person, same place. Turned out this was either an extremely detailed and extended nightmare, or very, very real. Eyes finally open, Tim found he was in the same room as before, maybe not the one he upchucked in, but they were functionally identical anyway. He was on the bed, on his back, and each of his wrists had been tightly secured to either end of the bed frame at his sides. He couldn’t see his legs, with the scratchy white blanket covering them, but he could tell the same was true for his ankles. 

Shit.

“You only just got free roam of your room. Do you understand why we had to return to the restraints?”

“What?” Tim croaked. This new doctor wasn’t wearing a lab coat, it was draped over the back of her chair. He’d almost guess she’d done so to encourage a feeling of informality, but her blouse was sharp and her hair no-nonsense and her face stern. Maybe she just really hated the coat.

“Part of the deal is following basic instruction, Tim. For our safety, but especially yours. If you can’t do that, you have to talk with us. Communication, Tim. Otherwise your privileges have to get taken away. Do you agree?”

Tim tried to blink away the sandy feeling in his eyes, but that only served to make them itch more. “I’m… why th’ hell am I in… here,” He tried.

The doctor seemed disaffected by Tim’s urgency. Her focus was on a slim tablet she held in her lap, occasionally tapping away at it, presumably taking notes. “Are you present here with me, Tim?” She asked.

“What?”

“I can’t help you if you aren’t here, with me. A hundred percent.” The doctor glanced up, “Can I ask you a few questions, to be sure you’re present?”

Tim pulled at his bound hands, wishing he could sit up, at the very least. “I’m here.”

“Can you tell me your name?”

Tim closed his eyes against the itching and the bright fluorescents, “What the hell is happening?” He breathed, trying to sort things out – his thoughts, the chain of events that lead him here.

“Your name, please.”

Tim sighed heavily. She’d already called him Tim, so, “Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne.” He intoned, “Why am I here?”

She ignored his question, “And how old are you?”

“Turned sixteen on Monday. Why am I here?”

“Do you remember your parents’ names?” Her eyes were alight with something – shining with something like progress. 

“Jack and Janet Drake, can you stop with this already?” Tim snapped.

She frowned, not at his tone, but at something he said. “I’m sorry – did you say ‘Jack Drake’ is your father?”

“Yes – head of Drake industries, murdered by Captain Boomerang, this is public knowledge. Now can you  _ please _ just tell me why the  _ fuck  _ I’m here?” 

She continued frowning at her tablet, speaking absently as she scrolled through, “Remember what we said about language, Tim?”

“Literally no.”

“It’s not productive to your mental health to use words that promote aggression. Can you try that again for me?”

Tim wanted to scream, “Just – tell me how the - how I ended up  _ here _ . And  _ why _ .”

The doctor finally looked up at him. He knew that look. It was quizzical, clinical. The way Bruce looked when he had a puzzle to solve. Tim didn’t like her looking at him like that. “Why don’t you tell me why  _ you _ think you’re here.”

Tim glared at her, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I don’t. Know.”

The doctor leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. “Can you tell me what you remember of that night?”

“ _ What night _ .” Tim ground out.

The doctor frowned a little, and moved back in her chair with a sigh. “You have to face the memories, Tim. Even the bad ones. It’s the only way to heal. Sickness doesn’t just go away if you ignore it.”

“I’m not  _ sick _ .” Tim said. Then, at her calm look, “I’m not. Sick.”

She looked down at a tablet in her lap, scrolling through it. “There’s many steps backward in healing, Tim. It isn’t shameful if you’ve returned to denial, it just means we’ve hit a roadblock, one we can work through.”

“ _ No _ I’m not in denial!” Tim’s voice rose, “I’m  _ fine _ , okay!?”

She continued reading her tablet, not listening. That familiar pang of anger welled up in Tim’s chest. He held it close. Better than fear.

“I can prove it – okay? I can prove it. I’m not deluded, I’m not crazy, okay?” And somehow it felt like he’d had this conversation before. Back when Bruce was lost in time. Back when he was the only one who knew that.

The doctor looked up, still frustratingly blank in the face of his desperation.

Tim tried to take a breath, collect himself before he lost it. “My name is Tim Drake-Wayne,” He started, “I’m sixteen. My parents were Jack and Janet Drake.”

The doctor seemed confused again when he said his parents’ names. It seemed like a bad sign.

“My mom was killed in Haiti by the Obeah man, my dad was killed by Captain Boomerang, I was adopted by Bruce Wayne-“

And she furrowed her brows at that, moving to go back to her tablet, Tim rushed forward before he lost her entirely.

“I have four adopted siblings, Cass, Dick, Damian, and Ja-“ He cut himself off, he wasn’t supposed to mention Jason. But he saw her expression change slightly, she picked up on something. He had to backtrack. “And Jason.” Tim finished, “But uh… he’s dead now.” Jason’s death was public knowledge, he was in the clear.

The doctor was silent for a long moment, staring at him. He stared back defiantly, but couldn’t read the expression on her face. She closed her eyes. Inhaled, exhaled. Taking her time while Tim just wanted some  _ answers _ .

“Tim, do you remember when we talked about how sometimes… we tell ourselves stories that, no matter how real they seem, just aren’t based in reality. Do you know why we do that, Tim?”

And any hope he’d just had died in his chest.

“It’s because we don’t want to face the things that happened to us in the real world.” She continued, “It’s called a trauma response. There’s nothing wrong with having it, but do you remember some of the things you told me, before?”

She continued, despite his lack of response, “Do you remember when you said you grew up in the circus? That your parents were trapeze artists?”

“No,” Tim shook his head, “That’s Dick, that’s not me. That didn’t happen to me.”

She nodded, “You’re right, Tim. It didn’t happen to you. But in that moment, when you were telling that story, you really did believe it was true. The same happened when you told me that you were a marionette that…  _ he _ … brought to life. Like Pinocchio, you said.” She paused, “And now – with this new story. Wealthy parents murdered by criminals, leaving you young and orphaned and alone. Doesn’t that sound a little familiar to you? Something that happened to a certain famous Wayne?”

Tim got a creeping feeling he was part of some twisted psychological experiment. Trying to make him question his own history. But what could be the end goal? Who would benefit from trying to brainwash him? The doctor was stern-faced, yes, but remarkably earnest. Maybe she was being played too, or maybe she was just very good at acting.

“I think that you’re trying very hard to be someone else, Tim, because you don’t want to think about the things that happened to you.”

Answers. He needed answers.

“So what  _ did _ happen to me?” He demanded.

She pursed her lips, “Tim, I’d really like for you to remember it, rather than me telling you.”

“What if I need you to tell me in order to remember?” Tim fished for something, anything that might work, “A… a trigger word, or something. To help get the memories going.”

She stayed silent, and Tim felt a cold sort of fear take hold of his tongue.

“Please,” He begged, “Please just tell me. Why am I here? Why am I  _ here _ ?”  _ Tell me so I know what to do to get  _ out. 

She placed the tablet back on her lap, face down. Tim took it as a good sign. “The… Joker,” She began, watching his face intently, he tried to keep it as neutral as possible. “Kidnapped and tortured you. Your mind wasn’t the same, so we – myself and the staff – are here to help you work through that trauma.”

Tim stared at the ceiling in disbelief. She continued, “Your father’s name was Steven Drake, he wasn’t killed by Captain Boomerang, he disappeared after a deal with Two-Face went awry. You were adopted when you were ten by Bruce Wayne, you said he saved you from a life of swindling and petty crime-”

“But that’s Jason.” Tim said before he could stop himself.

“Pardon me?”

Shit, he shouldn’t have said that. But she was too attentive to let it go. “Jason.” He explained, “You’re thinking of Jason, my older brother. He’s… he  _ was  _ the one who lived in crime alley.  _ He’s _ the one who-“ He stopped himself, because the official story was Jason had been killed by a terrorist group in Ethiopia, the Joker wasn’t supposed to be mentioned. But Jason was the one who was kidnapped and tortured by the Joker – and killed, after. But she hadn’t mentioned that, the killing thing. Why would she refute his own past with  _ Jason’s _ ?

The doctor’s voice had the cadence of a gentle reminder, “You only have one sibling, Tim. Dick Grayson.”

Then it clicked. And Tim was kicking himself for not realizing it sooner, considering the exact machine he’d been fucking with immediately before ending up here.

Multiverse shit.

Oh how he hated multiverse shit.

Suddenly every possible variable was up in the air. Had he replaced the Tim Drake of this universe? Swapped with him, somehow? He wouldn’t rule out something like mental transference but his body still felt like his, however much that sentiment was worth. 

He did know a few things for certain now, though. This Tim only had one adopted sibling, which meant Jason didn’t exist in this universe, or if he did his history wasn’t the same. The same went for Cass and Damian, although Dick was still around. If anyone had to be the constant in every universe, Tim was glad it was him. And this universe’s Tim had somehow co-opted Jason’s history. Tim wondered if Batman existed here. The Joker did, so it was a definite possibility. Did Robin, then? Was Tim ever Robin here?

And why  _ Arkham _ ?

“Tim, can you tell me more about Jason?”

Shit. Shit shit shit. How the hell was he supposed to get out of Arkham? There was no way he’d get back to his own world from in here. He considered for a very brief moment, just telling the doctor the whole story, but immediately decided that claiming to be from a parallel universe didn’t create the best case for sanity.

His best case for sanity was cooperation. Regrettably.

“Tim?”

“Yeah?” He said, doing his best to formulate a half-way decent plan while also maintaining a semblance of a conversation.

“Can you tell me more about Jason?”

Tim shook his head, “No, no you’re right. I don’t think there is a Jason.”

“You said he had died.”

“Did I?”

The doctor’s eyes were calculated, “Did the Joker have something to do with Jason dying, Tim? Did the Joker kill Jason?”

Fuck. “The Joker kills a lot of people.”

“Killed.” The doctor corrected absently. 

And before Tim could ask what the hell  _ that _ meant, she said, “Do you remember what the Joker called you, when you were kidnapped?”

“What?”

“He called you by a different name when you were with him, do you remember it?” At Tim’s silence she prompted, “After you came here, it was the only name you would answer to for six months. It was a real achievement when you went back to Tim.”

He shook his head, “No, no I don’t remember.” Memory loss might actually be a good excuse to get information. It looked like this universe’s Tim had a habit of it. Tim tried very hard not to think of any reasons why.

“He called you Jay-Jay.”

And suddenly all Tim’s half-formed plans of escape ground to a halt. Because he knew exactly what she was implying, and had no idea how to get out of this particular hole he’d dug.

“This… Jason. Is he with us now?”

Oh no. Fuck no. 

“No.” Tim said.

“You’ve tensed up, Tim. Does Jason scare you?”

_ Not since the last time he tried to kill me, _ Tim thought, maybe a little hysterically. “No.” He said again.

“You and I talked a bit about lying last time, do you remember? We do it to keep ourselves safe. But this is a safe place, Tim. No one, not even Jason, can hurt you. You can tell the truth.”

Tim was busy reeling over the implication that Jason was a figment of his own broken psyche, which was so bonkers and almost hilarious that he wasn’t going to chance even  _ trying _ to explain, which she apparently took for reluctance.

“Does Jason ever tell you to do things? Things you don’t want to do?” A long pause, because Tim wasn’t going to say anything that might get him stuck here for longer. “… Does Jason ever tell you to hurt people?”

Tim wasn’t listening. He couldn’t answer any of her questions without digging himself deeper in this weird psychological hole he’d dug for himself. 

And what had  _ happened _ in this universe?

“Why am I in Arkham?” Tim asked, turning to her. She frowned and took a pause, he could tell she was gearing up to get him back on the ‘Jason’ topic, so he rushed over her. “No, seriously. Why  _ Arkham _ ? Of all places – I mean, if I’m anywhere institutional I should be in… a real hospital. With a juvenile mental health wing. Arkham’s… not what I would’ve expected.” 

The doctor seemed confused, assessing. Then she spoke, “That’s a good question, Tim. Why do  _ you _ think you’re in Arkham?”

Tim huffed in frustration, this method of psychology she was using wasn’t going to get him a straight answer. Attempting the parallel universe explanation was definitely out, though. It would only give this doctor more reason to keep him here. He wasn’t going to get any answers just by asking. Okay, fine, he’d do this the hard way.

_ Come on, Tim _ . He thought.  _ You’re a detective. Figure it out. _

“I was kidnaped by the Joker.” He started slowly, careful to use the first person. If he started referring to this universe’s Tim as ‘other Tim’ things would go south faster than he could stop. “And tortured. I had a breakdown of some kind.”

He tried to imagine it. Put himself in the shoes of… himself. What would’ve happened next?

“They would’ve tried to get psychiatric help, if it was bad enough.” He said, “That’s obvious. Probably Leslie, something Bruce could keep close to the chest, he wouldn’t want the media to get a hold of anything. But not Arkham. Nothing short of murder would get me stuck in here-“ He stopped. He looked to the doctor sharply. Her face was impassive.

“You said ‘killed’. The Joker ‘killed’ – not kills people. Past tense.” There was no laughter in the hallway. The building was quiet. And maybe Joker had broken out recently or maybe they kept him in a separate wing, but maybe…

And there it was, the rush of combination satisfaction and horror that usually came with solving a case. All the pieces coming together.

“I killed the Joker.” The words were like ash in his mouth, his stomach twisting in something like fear.

The doctor, evidently, didn’t share his reaction. Just watched him with a detached sort of concern. “You were under duress, Tim.” She said, “The courts judged it in self-defense. You have nothing to feel guilty about.”

He wasn’t guilty. 

He was thinking. 

“Which means,” He continued as if she hadn’t spoken, “that they wouldn’t have been able to place me with other minors in a hospital ward. Not if I’m labelled such a ‘high risk’. Not when there’s the convenience of an entire asylum dedicated to murderers with mental problems.”

“Tim,” She said gently, “You’re not a murderer.”

But in Bruce’s eyes, Tim would be. No wonder this universe’s Tim had gone crazy – not only because of his own guilt, but because of Bruce’s disapproval. It all made sense now. “No, no I am.” Tim responded, probably sounding far too excited about it. “I killed the Joker.” And that’s why Bruce put him here, and then probably forgot about him.  _ This  _ Tim failed, so he got put away. He must’ve known that. 

“Has Bruce shown up at all? Since I got here?” Tim asked.

The doctor pursed her lips, and didn’t answer, which was an answer in of itself. 

He’d figured it out.

He hadn’t figured out how to get  _ out _ of Arkham just yet, but it was still one part solved.

The doctor seemed to speculate for a moment before changing the subject again. “How about we discuss ‘Jason’ a little more?”

Great, back on the fake Jason train. “I told you already,” Tim said, convincing her of this was probably step one to getting his sanity pass. “There is no Jason.” 

“Maybe not to me,” She was doing the psychologist thing where she was agreeing with him, but not really. “Sometimes we can’t control the things we see or hear, even if we know they’re not real.”

“Yes, thanks, I know what a hallucination is. But I’m not having them.” 

“Could you describe Jason for me?”

Tim stared steadfast at the ceiling, refusing to answer. This was officially a nightmare, and not dealing with it wasn’t going to get him out of it, but saying  _ anything _ at all would only dig him in deeper.

She asked a few more questions about Jason, but once it was clear Tim was done with this, the doctor left, eventually. Taking her coat and her chair with her.

Tim took the opportunity to figure out an escape, although his search was unfortunately not very illuminating. He was still tied down to the bed frame, which became more and more annoying now that he had an itch just under his chin he was physically unable to scratch. The frame itself was made of round-edged white plastic, the kind that reminded him of kids toys. Avoiding that train of thought, he twisted his body as far as he could to lean over the side. The bed frame had been bolted to the floor, and the screws were caulked over, preventing him from getting any tools, even if he did manage to get out of the restraints.

Which wasn’t seeming likely so far.

As a test, Tim called out to the observation window that he needed the bathroom. It was impossible to tell whether there were people in there, as the window was a perpetual darkened grey, but within a minute three staff members came in, wheeling along with them that stupid fucking chair.

They all had tasers on their belts, and they all watched him very, very closely. Two of them maneuvered him off the bed, each undoing a leg first, then his arms, keeping one hand clamped down firmly on his forearm while the other undid the straps.

They lifted him up and into the chair, the third staff member standing by the door, hand resting warningly on his taser. Tim resisted the urge to flinch away as they buckled him securely into the chair, instead staring down the guard by the door. Once they were certain Tim wouldn’t be flipping anyone over his shoulder any time soon, they wheeled him out into the hall.

Tim, evidently, had not thought this bathroom thing entirely through. He’d only wanted to see exactly when and how they moved him from place to place, so he could spot any and all weak spots, and make his way  _ out _ . Batman’s Rogue’s treated Arkham like it was a revolving door, escape couldn’t be  _ that _ hard. But right now, between the bed and the chair and his lack of tools, getting out was shaping up to be a pretty tall order.

Yet Tim refused to let his certainty of escape die. He’d been let out of the chair to piss, at least. Even though now, he was expected to piss with three grown-ass asylum staff members watching him  _ very _ intently.

“Awkward.” Tim muttered under his breath as he faced the urinal, doing his best to think of waterfalls and rain instead of the  _ three grown-ass asylum staff members watching him extremely intently _ .

With that over with, Tim was packed back into the chair and brought back to his room, then returned to his bed and… back at square one. This might be a little harder than he thought.

Where was Bane to do a break-in when you needed him?

Luckily though, Tim wasn’t out of options yet.

He waited until night again, marked by the slight dimming of the fluorescent ceiling lights. He still couldn’t tell if anyone was watching him through the observation window, so he did his best to turn away from it. As much as he could, while tied to a bed.

“Kon,” He said softly, waiting a few moments. Then, “ _ Kon. _ ” In more of a stage whisper. Maybe he wasn’t this universe’s Tim, and maybe Damian and Cass and Jason weren’t around, but there was still a chance. There was still a chance there was  _ a _ Kon, and that even if Tim wasn’t exactly  _ this _ universe’s Tim, perhaps they were good enough friends that Kon would break into Arkham for  _ a _ Tim.

A few more minutes passed with nothing. “Kon this is  _ not _ the time for you to fuck around, okay? I need your help.”

… Okay. Either Kon wasn’t listening, or there was no Kon here.

There were still options.

“Superman?” Tim said hopefully.

Nothing.

… And he was officially out of options.

Tim rolled back over to stare up at the ceiling. He was really in it now. In the interest of not beating himself up over being an idiot with a big science thing and royally screwing with the multiverse, Tim did his best to think of literally anything else.

“Shit.” He said to the ceiling.

~

“Penny told me you were talking to someone last night.”

Tim had only been at this whole song and dance for about two days now and he was already getting tired of it. No wonder this universe’s Tim was stuck in Arkham. Just being here made Tim want to go crazy. Other Tim had been here for nearly three years.

“Yeah,” He said, deciding that today he’d play along. Doctors all wanted to be proven right, and all they wanted was cooperative patients. He could give that to her. Accept whatever hypothesis she’d come up with, do whatever exercises she thought would cure him, report back with amazing results, and get the hell out of here. “Yeah, I was. Talking to someone.”

“Was it Jason?”

Admittedly this plan was a bit of a long game. The only upside was that Other Tim was evidently not being medicated, as he tended to have adverse reactions to them. Tim’s theory was that the Joker venom had done something to his biology, but he didn’t know for sure. Either way the only drugs Other Tim was cleared for were mild to heavy sedatives, which meant Tim could keep his head on straight so long as he avoided giving anyone an excuse to sedate him.

“Yeah,” He repeated.

“Does he often come to you at night?”

“When there’s no one else around, yeah.” He was just pulling this out of his ass, now.

The doctor tapped at her tablet a little, making notes. Tim had to admit that her office was much better than his own room. He was still in the wheelchair, sure. But at least he was sitting up.

“Jason isn’t here now?”

“Nope.” Tim said, doing his best not to fidget. She’d probably take note of that somehow.

“What does he talk to you about, at night?”

“Oh, y’know.” Tim said, trying to land on something that was normal enough he wouldn’t seem  _ too _ messed up, but messed up enough that the doctor wouldn’t think he was trying too hard to be normal. Which was ironic, since he was making all of this up. “Stuff.” Strike one, Tim, jesus.

“Can you tell me any specifics?”

“Uh… just about, you know. The Joker.” Something in Tim felt slimy about this. He was taking someone else’s trauma and pretending it was his own. Whether it was Other Tim’s trauma or Jason’s trauma he was using, it didn’t matter. It was manipulative, and shitty.

But he  _ had _ to get out of here.

“Does he talk about the events that happened while you were taken?”

“No, not usually.” Tim said. At the doctor’s – her name was Dr. Grock, he had to remember that – silence, he realized she expected him to elaborate. “Uh, he usually talks to me. About… me.”

Dr. Grock contemplated this, “And… when he talks about you, is he more kind? Or more cruel?”

“Well, he’s kind of a jerk sometimes, but it’s not like he wants to kill me.”  _ Anymore _ , Tim didn’t say. 

“Can you tell me anything specific he tells you?”

“He won’t stop bringing up the fact that he died,” Tim starts. The best lies were the ones based in truth, right? “He wants to remind everyon – er, me. He wants to remind me that he died, as if I don’t already know.”

“Do you think he blames you for being killed by the Joker?”

Tim couldn’t help an aborted laugh, “No, no the only person he blames for  _ that _ is himself. He only blames me for replacing him.”

And that was, it turned out, the exact wrong thing to say. Tim had strayed from the healthy margin between ‘normal’ and ‘messed up’ and veered firmly into the ‘messed up’ lane. This might take some walking back from.

Dr. Grock snatched this up like a woman starved, “You replaced him?” She repeated slowly, “Tim, out of the two of you, does Jason seem… more real?”

“No,” Tim said, scrambling. “No, he uh… I mean I replaced him like… in terms of name? You know, back when I would only answer to Jay-Jay.”

Dr. Grock put down her tablet. Tim learned she did this when she was about to say something she thought was important. “Do you want to know what I think, Tim?”

“Yes?”

“We discussed before about how one of your defense mechanisms for dealing with stressful situations is pretending to be someone else. There’s usually someone else you’d rather be, someone you admire or look up to, who you think would handle the situation better than you can. Which is why you tell stories about being Dick Grayson,” Tim could tell she was purposely saying ‘stories’ instead of ‘lying’. “You look up to him, and as your older brother, he often protects you. Can you see how your mind is trying to protect itself by projecting onto him?”

Tim nodded.

“This is also why you so often tell stories about being Robin.”

Okay, pump the brakes there,  _ what _ .

Dr. Grock continued, “Batman and Robin are Gotham’s heroes, and who else have stood up to the Joker and won more times than them? It’s okay that you want to be someone who could face off against evil, and Robin was a brave figure around your age who could inspire you. There’s nothing wrong with that.

“But you need to start focusing on the here and now, Tim. Pretending can only protect you for so long. I think you’ve come to a point where you know you aren’t Dick Grayson, and you know you aren’t Robin, but you’re still scared of being Tim Drake. The real Tim Drake.”

“What?” Tim’s mouth was very dry.

“You don’t think that Tim Drake – that  _ you _ can do this on your own. But that’s why I’m here, Tim. You don’t have to hide behind your brother, or Robin, or Jason anymore. You’re brave all on your own, and you don’t have to force the part of you that Joker hurt away in order to move forward.”

She smiled, and it was strangely genuine. It was almost worse than her usual corporate one, because it made Tim’s eyes sting. “Here’s what I think; Jason is a part of you that doesn’t want you to move on. When Jason blames you for replacing him, that’s you, not wanting to let go of your pain, and the things that happened to you. But at the same time, Jason only exists because you don’t want to face the fact that those things  _ did  _ happen, and they happened to you. Not someone else.”

_ But they did happen to someone else, _ Tim thought frantically.

“You don’t deserve this pain, Tim. You deserve to be happy, and to live a long and happy life with your family.”

_ This isn’t for you,  _ Tim reminded himself, but the sting behind his eyes wasn’t going away.  _ She’s not talking about you, she’s talking about Other Tim. _

“You deserve to be yourself, and be  _ proud _ of who you are, without any masks.”

Not Robin. Red or otherwise. Not Timothy Drake the orphan or Tim Wayne the socialite. Not Jason’s replacement or Damian’s nemesis or –  _ stop _ .  _ This isn’t for you _ . It annoyed Tim to realize that all Dr. Grock had to say were a few key words like  _ brave  _ or  _ happy _ or  _ family _ and suddenly there were all these emotions just  _ there _ . And he sure as hell didn’t invite them in.

And he couldn’t even wipe his eyes to make sure no tears escaped because he was still in this  _ fucking chair _ .

So he just stared up at the pot lights installed above her desk and willed his eyes dry. This was ridiculous. He was stuck in an asylum in an alternate universe, and some stranger starts talking earnestly about all the things he does or doesn’t deserve and he’s practically a mess.

After a respectful amount of time passed in silence, Dr. Grock spoke again. “Tim, would you like to keep going?”

Tim closed his eyes, grateful that no tears escaped. He kept them shut and breathed slowly through his nose. Somehow he couldn’t bring himself to say no. If he did, he’d cut the progress he’d made into getting  _ out _ . But he also really didn’t want to cry right now.

Another silence.

“Okay,” Dr. Grock said with finality, “I think we’re finished. We’ll pick this up again tomorrow.” She stood, and put a hand on his shoulder. Her face was still impassive, but her eyes were alight with that thing again.  _ Progress _ . “You did really well, Tim.”

And Tim felt simultaneous despair that he wasn’t the Tim she should be praising, and elation that she was praising him. It made him want to cry again, fuck.

_ My only weakness, _ he thought, with an honest attempt at sarcasm,  _ positive reinforcement _ . And it was a little too true to be actually funny.

He felt washed out as he was once again secured to the bed in his white and impersonal room, staring at the ceiling as the weight of the restraints tightened around his ankles. He was in a weird mood now. And a weird mood was dangerous when he had nothing to occupy himself with. It could lead him down all sorts of mental roads he wanted to avoid.

Pretending to be someone else. It figured that all Tim’s were good at lying. At making stuff up. At ‘telling stories’, as Dr. Grock put it. Turns out Tim Drake wasn’t such a swell person to be in any universe. But especially not this one.

Tim closed his eyes, allowing himself to wonder what his family back home was up to. He hadn’t spoken to any of his siblings in months, and if Bruce hadn’t called to order him to take the night off, he and Alfred would be in that boat too. Tim wasn’t about to blame them, if anything it was his own fault for leaning in a little too hard on the vigilante business. And the… business business. He knew it wasn’t healthy, or right, or anything. But anger could take you a long way if you let it. Anger at everyone for not believing him when he needed them to, at Damian for taking his spot, at Dick for taking Robin away as if it was his right to pick and choose who needed it more.

But who was Tim kidding, it basically was. Didn’t Dick have  _ some _ say over who got to be Robin, being the first? It wasn’t supposed to be permanent, Tim knew that going in. But he would’ve preferred to give it up when he was ready, even though a part of him knew that that wouldn’t have been for a  _ long _ time. He’d fooled himself into thinking he’d earned it, he guessed. That he made it his own, even though it was just the same name with a new paint job. 

But still. He’d liked pretending.

_ Stop. _ Tim commanded forcefully. He refused to let himself entropy into a self-pitying spiral, especially not in here. He had to get out, whatever way was possible. He had to strategize. Continue working his angle with the doctor until she deemed him fit for the outside world, and keep his eyes open for any kind of escape opportunity from here until then. He  _ had _ to get back, and he would. One way or the other. If for nothing else than to rip that multiverse communication machine apart with his bare fucking hands.

~

His schedule turned out to be extremely regimented, leaving him without much free time save for the hours he lay on the cot pretending to sleep. They were trying to give him some semblance of an education, here. But it was clear the resources were lacking, and the teacher who spoke to him through the observation window had some clear limitations put on him in regards to what he could expose Tim to. It was a lot of theory – a lot of math and rudimentary sciences and reading comprehension. Tim guessed he was probably somewhere in an eighth grade curriculum, which made sense, considering other Tim got put away when he was thirteen. But it was still frustrating, attempting to hit the mark somewhere in ‘convincingly bad’ but ‘still improving’. On top of that all the lessons came off extremely patronizing, the teacher spoke slowly, deliberately, but with enough condescension that Tim would’ve gladly thrown just how much he  _ knew _ in this mans’ face. Then again, Tim was a high school dropout. He didn’t exactly have the best ground to stand on.

But it didn’t take him long to notice there was no sign of any social studies in his lesson plans. No discussions of politics, news, or real world events. Not even history.

There were tests of his motor skills, physical exams that stank of the kind of physical therapy Dana used to put Tim’s dad through. Memory tests, reading tests, one particularly annoying one where the window went dark and they just fed various pieces of classical music through the room’s speakers. Tim assumed they were taking notes on his reactions to the music, but what they were looking for he had no idea.

But they all remarked, in some way or another, on just how  _ cooperative _ he was being lately. Most were relieved about it, some clearly suspicious, but Tim took it as a good sign either way. Following the rules seemed like his best current bet out of here, no matter how much it made him want to tear his hair out.

~

The next day passed much the same, with the exception of a shower in the morning. The three staff members who woke him up at least had the decency to turn around for this part, but it would never not be extremely uncomfortable.

He talked with Dr. Grock for a few hours, trying to play into the narrative that “Jason” was just a figment of his imagination, and although splitting your own psyche into a traumatized version of yourself and a healthy version of yourself would never be deemed technically sane, he did his best to lead Dr. Grock to the conclusion that he was dealing with it marvelously, and in keeping pace his recovery should go fairly well.

She asked about his childhood a few times, which was actually easier than the “Jason” stuff. As far as Tim could guess, the Jack Drake – Steven Drake, for some inexplicable reason – of this universe was a two-bit crook who got himself into hot water with a couple of much bigger fish, namely Two-Face. Exactly the kind of c-list villain that Arthur Brown would’ve shared some resemblance to.

He winced internally at the idea of borrowing Steph’s history to suit his own needs, but only for a moment. He was going to use every card in the deck for this one, and his cards happened to include grafting other people’s stories onto his own. Tim always worked best when he was focused on a singular goal, and pretty soon things started working like a dream.

Still, his window of escape was a long way off.

Until, of course. Saturday.

Five days in and he was already exhausted of this charade, but he wasn’t wavering. Plus they’d stopped with the restraints on the bed. He’d “earned back his privileges”. To celebrate he’d spent the night on the floor, and honestly? Best sleep so far.

Saturday though.

The morning came and went as usual. It wasn’t a shower day, thank god, and he’d managed to shovel down the vitamins and some of the oatmeal they’d given him. It tasted weird from a plastic spoon. He’d be out soon. He wasn’t sure how soon exactly, but had staked his claim on the word  _ soon _ and repeated it as much as was necessary to convince himself that yes. He’d be out. Soon.

Then his appointment with Dr. Grock ended, and she stood from the desk like usual, taking her coat off the back of the chair like usual, but then she walked to the door without wheeling him out. No more restraints on the chair, but there would be if he tried to get up of his own volition. He stayed sitting down.

And then someone else came in.

Like a vision from a dream, like a prim and proper English angel descended from on high, like the Alfred Pennyworth of life and legend and Tim’s memory, he came in and sat down in Dr. Grock’s chair as if this was as casual as an appointment at the dentist.

Tim just stared.

“You look well, Master Tim.” Alfred started, stiff upper lip as usual, the brilliant bastard.

“Alfred,” Was all Tim could choke out. Here he was planning his next eight weeks at Arkham, and escape was sitting right across from him in a pressed black suit.

“You may not remember, but I was here for your birthday, this past Monday.” Alfred said, “And I just wanted to be sure you were alright. They didn’t give me the details, but I was told you’d attacked one of the staff members.”

Tim nodded, barely hearing what Alfred was saying, trying to balance his overwhelming happiness with formulating some kind of plan to best communicate to Alfred exactly what was happening. They’d probably dealt with the multiverse here before, in this universe, Alfred would know what was up and get him out of there, just as soon as Tim could figure out how to let him know.

“But you’ve been doing well since then, so I hear.” Alfred gave a small smile, “I’m proud of you, my boy.”

Should Tim just come straight out and say it? That’d probably be the most direct way, wouldn’t it? Subtleties had too much risk. He should just -

“There’s not much to report from the manor, I’m afraid. Although Master Dick has stopped by for a visit. He’ll be staying until next week. He wanted me to tell you that he wanted to see you, but unfortunately he was called away…” Alfred’s eyes flickered up towards the door, attentive to the people listening in, “On business.” He finished. “Miss Gordon also sends her regard-“

“Alfred, you have to get me out of here.” There, quick, simple and to the point.

Alfred’s brow lowered slightly. “Master Ti-“

“No, Alfred, listen, okay? I’m not your Tim, I’m from a different universe, where things are different. I’m not in Arkham, for one. And you need to get me out of here so I can go back home.” Alfred’s expression didn’t change. Tim powered on, “Look, in my universe I head the R&D division at Wayne Enterprises, we were trying to find a way to communicate with the multiverse, and something went wrong, and I ended up here. I don’t know where your Tim went, but we can get him back if you just-“

“Master Tim,” Alfred’s voice was stern, with the kind of overtone that suggested Tim was up to some tomfoolery and needed to  _ cut that shit out _ , and the kind of undertone that sounded deeply hurt. Tim shut up immediately.

“I thought,” Alfred started, stopping to take a breath, and beginning again, “I  _ thought _ , Master Tim, that you were done with your… stories.”

Tim’s heart sank.

“I’m not lying, Alfred.” He said, his voice weaker than he intended.

Alfred sighed, “I know, Master Tim, I know. But even though you believe it doesn’t mean it’s reality. I know it feels like it is, for you. But you must try and  _ think _ about these ideas that you have.”

Tim didn’t know what to say.

“Do you remember,” Alfred said, “Two months ago, when you told me that the doctors had been poisoning your food? And that I needed to save you from this place, or they’d kill you?”

Tim blinked.

“Or when,” Alfred’s voice was strained, “Even before that, you insisted the Joker had returned from the grave and was making attempts at possession?” Alfred shook his head, “I know you believe your stories, Master Tim, so much that they seem real, but like Dr. Grock has said, just apply some logic to them and you’ll find yourself back in reality.”

Tim couldn’t believe this.

“I mean,” Alfred said, apparently trying for some sardonic wit, “Heading Research and Development? At sixteen?”

Tim stared down at his hands in his lap, and subsequently the restraints hanging loose on the arms of the wheelchair, doing his best to convince himself that the feeling he was never getting out of here was only a feeling and not a prophecy.

“The devil’s in the details, as they say.” Alfred said softly.

And here Tim was again. No evidence, no options, and no one who believed him. Even though he was  _ right _ . He knew he was right, he  _ had _ to be right.

“Alfred,” He said, and his voice came out a pitiful whine. Embarrassing.

“I’m sorry, my boy.” And he really did look sorry. He really was sorry. 

The hardest thing in the world, it turned out, was not going toe to toe with Ra’s Al Ghul, or the Joker, or even Batman. It’s convincing a world that thinks you’re crazy into believing you’re sane. And Tim was having to do it twice now.

“Please, Alfred,” Tim begged, a fluttering panic coming alive in his chest as he saw the man start to stand up. “Please, you can’t leave me here.”

“I’ll see you again next week, Master Tim.” Alfred said quietly.

He stepped toward the door, and even though not a half hour ago Tim was readying himself to spend  _ months _ in this place, Tim was suddenly certain that he wouldn’t last the seven days until Alfred returned. Tim shot up out of the chair, and in the same breath that he reached for Alfred, hands were suddenly on him, pushing him back.

“No!” Tim shouted, desperate and homesick and  _ wanting _ , “No! No you can’t leave, Alfred! Please!  _ Please _ !”

The familiar clink of a buckle and the now-familiar tightening of straps around his wrists seemed to kill his voice in his lungs. Tim’s breaths came in short gasps, and he was suddenly sure he was dying. He was going to die here. Alone and desperate and pathetic.

“I’m sorry,” Alfred sounded wretched, and Tim couldn’t see him anymore, head pulled into the bend of someone’s arm to expose his neck and Tim knew what would come next.

“Al, you can’t,” Tim pleaded uselessly. His muscles tensed as he felt the pinch of a needle, and a heaviness started to settle over his limbs. “You can’t.” He choked on it, like it would matter. It didn’t.

Alfred could, would. Did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter I had originally slated for ch 3 has been kicking my ass, meanwhile this one got absurdly long so I split it and shuffled some stuff around.
> 
> Next time: A different Tim is no longer stuck in a hospital, and jeez Bruce has a lot more kids than he remembers.


	4. Homecoming (Sort of)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back with the comics universe: nobody knows what's happening, least of all Tim.

Talking with the Gotham city police department was a regular nightly occurrence for Batman. Even if Batman himself didn’t do much of the talking. But it was often enough that he knew most if not all of the officers by name.

So it wasn’t a surprise when Batman’s comms buzzed to life and Alfred informed him he had an urgent call from Officer Skelton. He told Alfred to patch him through.

What _was_ a surprise, however, was who the call was for.

“Mr. Wayne?” 

Bruce startled a little, “Yes?” He began running through worst-case scenarios in his head. Bruce Wayne was also familiar with the police, but not in such a way that he’d receive calls at four in the morning.

“Uh, sorry to bother you so late Mr. Wayne, but I’ve got your son here down at the station, and you may want to come pick him up.”

Batman stilled in a way that would make any witnesses instinctively hold their breath.

“Damian? What’s he done?” There were a lot of things Damian might do that would qualify as a punishable offence, but he had never been caught before.

“Er – no. Your other son-“

“Dick?” He almost said ‘Jason’, but Jason was still legally dead. If the police had arrested _him_, Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be the person they’d call.

“No… not that one either.” Officer Skelton sounded apologetic. At Bruce’s silence he continued, “Mr. Wayne, I read in the Gazette that your son was having a birthday today, and y’know, far be it from me to deny kids having fun, but we were still on the lookout for anything, er, rowdy. On account of your son’s uh, status.”

Bruce was officially lost.

“And listen I ain’t trying to accuse you of any parental misconduct Mr. Wayne, I appreciate what you do for this city, I really do, the Wayne scholarship sent my son to college. And it’s only because of my respect for you, Mr. Wayne, that I’d like to have you just pick your son on up from over here, before something like er… somethin’ maybe scandalous might occur.” Officer Skelton took a breath, the general din of the Gotham police department hummed in the background. “Public intoxication isn’t necessarily a serious offence, especially considering the usual kind of stuff we deal with here in Gotham, but uh… due to your sons’, er, position in your company, I thought I might call you and we could deal with this, y’know, quietly.”

Bruce was silent for a moment. Then, incredulously, “_Tim?_”

“Yeah, the uh. Drake kid? He’s been asking for you. Look I don’t know _what _he took or if he did it on purpose, which is really the only reason I’m able to sort of sweep this one under the rug, but he’s uh… not exactly coherent at the moment. Probably nothing that constitutes an ER trip, but - well I’ll let you decide once you get here.”

And then he heard it, just beyond the stuttering cadence of Officer Skelton’s voice and the beep of a coffee machine and the furious rustling of case-files, slightly muffled by what was probably a concrete wall and a holding cell.

Laughter. Near-hysterical, utterly terrified, terrifyingly familiar laughter.

“I’ll be there.” And Bruce didn’t notice if he’d slipped back into the Batman voice or not, his heart was pounding as he switched off the comm and leapt out into the night. Tim was infected with Joker venom. He had to move fast.

Bruce made it to the police station in record time, considering he had to change in the batmobile, practically ripping the cowl off, then park it somewhere suitably hidden wherein no one would be able to see Bruce Wayne entering or exiting, barely remembering to stash a vial of antidote up his suit jacket sleeve. He berated himself for being hasty, and then for not being fast enough.

He burst into the police station, making only minimum effort to maintain any kind of persona. His worried look tended towards the murderous, which wouldn’t have done well for Bruce Wayne’s reputation among the GPD.

Officer Skelton approached him immediately. Bruce had never met him, but knew of him from the severe background check Bruce had done when he joined the force. Officer Skelton was on the younger side, in his thirties, not immune or opposed to bribes or off-the-record deals, but seemed to have a moral compass pointing in the general direction of good intentions.

“Mr. Wayne, sir,” Officer Skelton greeted, “Sorry again for bothering you with this at such a late hour – it’s just he’s sort of disturbing the office here and-“

“Take me to him.” Bruce said, barely keeping his voice above a growl.

“Right, yeah of course, Mr. Wayne, sir.” Officer Skelton lead the way to the holding cell, “Just in the back here.”

Bruce couldn’t stop his eyes from widening a fraction when he saw. Tim looked…

Well he looked terrible.

He was curled up in the corner of the holding cell, mismatched socks on display now that he’d apparently thrown his shoes at the far wall. Bruce saw a scuff mark on the expensive leather toe. Tim was sweating, face shining feverishly, and his suit was rumpled and creased in places. His shoulders were hunched in such a way that the suit jacket appeared too big for him, even though Bruce knew that that wasn’t true. Tim had all his suits fitted since he started at Wayne Enterprises. His face was hidden in his hands, the palms pressed against his mouth as his body trembled with what Bruce feared and knew was laughter.

Officer Skelton misread Bruce’s stony silence as parental disapproval and cleared his throat awkwardly, “Well, er… how ‘bout I just leave you two to it then. I’ll show you out in a few.”

Bruce didn’t acknowledge as Officer Skelton proceeded to unlock the holding cell door and beat a hasty exit, but it was appreciated.

There was a beat of silence where the only noise were the scuffles of cloth against concrete and small escaped giggles from Tim’s mouth. Bruce stepped into the holding cell, over the discarded shoes and towards Tim, he discretely reached into his suit sleeve for the antidote, in such a way that the security camera’s wouldn’t pick up on anything remiss.

“Tim.” Bruce said.

Tim’s head shot up.

The look on his face almost made Bruce pause, for how rarely he’d seen it. And never with so much intensity. Tim was terrified, his eyes glazed, somewhere far away. Bruce was about to quickly administer the antidote, if only to get Tim coherent enough to get him to the car, but then…

Tim snapped into focus, and his expression opened as if he were seeing Bruce for the first time. The fear vanished from Tim’s face so quickly Bruce almost thought he’d imagined it. But it was replaced with,

“_Dad_,” The word escaped with a violent sob, and suddenly Tim was crying into his shoulder.

Bruce did not know what to do about this.

Tim fell into him, hands grabbing at the lapels of his suit, clumsy and uncoordinated. He was saying something into Bruce’s jacket but it was muffled by tears and fabric. Bruce worked through his shock like he did most things – ignoring it and proceeding as planned. He administered the antidote, hiding it in a hug as Tim shook apart in his arms. The reaction should’ve been almost immediate, as soon as the antidote hit his bloodstream it should’ve started to nullify the effects, but Tim continued shivering and babbling into Bruce’s shoulder. He hadn’t even flinched at the needle. Either he’d been hit with a new strain of venom, or this was something else.

Either way, Bruce had to get him to the cave.

He got up, awkward and stilted now that he had a teenager grabbing at him like a life preserver. Tim didn’t seem to want to stand on his own, clinging to Bruce fiercely and still crying.

It was strange to see Tim like this. Unnerving. Bruce had seen the height of Tim’s emotions many times while they were partners, had seen the most visceral parts of the boy whether due to venom or gas or other dire situations. But this was different, somehow. Maybe it was because Tim had distanced himself from Bruce since he’d left Robin, and Bruce hadn’t seen this side of him in some time. But, Bruce thought, even at his most vulnerable, most open, Bruce could always see Tim fighting for control. Even when he failed, he’d still fight to keep something back, keep something hidden, until he couldn’t possibly any more. And even then he’d try to pull it in again. Tim fought against the tide, always.

But not this time. And that made Bruce worried.

He forced the two of them awkwardly out of the holding cell, Tim still spouting incoherent nonsense as Bruce pulled him along, only barely remembering to pick up Tim’s shoes on the way. They received a few looks from the night staff of the department, most relieved that Tim would be out of their hair, a few sympathetic glances over what Bruce assumed was a shared parental struggle of dealing with overemotional drunk teenagers, and a few contemptuous smirks that Bruce soundly ignored.

Tim’s public reputation wasn’t something Bruce had given much thought too, mostly because Tim had given enough of his own thought to it, and Bruce knew it was something Tim could handle. But just going by what the general public knew of Tim’s recent exploits – that he’d gotten engaged, promptly called off the engagement, and somewhere in between seized a sizable chunk of Wayne Enterprise assets – it didn’t paint the most flattering picture. At best he was a reckless thrill-seeker like his adoptive father, stumbling his way into success like only those born into riches seemed to. At worst he was just another greedy business-savvy sociopath, distracting the media with a marriage announcement while manipulating his way into a higher position of power. Both were made worse by the fact he was sixteen.

It made sense people would be opinionated. And that not all those opinions would be good.

Once they left the building Bruce lifted Tim into his arms, since he was still only wearing socks and Gotham’s sidewalks were 90% broken glass. Tim didn’t push him away, just clung closer with a death grip around Bruce’s suit jacket, and with his face closer to Bruce’s ear he could finally pick up some of the words Tim was saying.

“I knew you’d come, I knew it, I knew it-“ Tim breathed between sniffles and sobs and small gasps for air. Bruce wondered worriedly why he seemed to weigh practically nothing.

Bruce felt a swell of… something, rise in his chest. A sort of anger, a sort of worry, a confusion and need to get Tim _home_ as fast as possible. It was protective, this feeling. Possessive, maybe. Bruce forced it down, reasoning that Tim was extremely vulnerable right now – would say things he didn’t mean, and would do things he normally wouldn’t do. Just because he was crying now didn’t mean he’d appreciate Bruce confining him to the manor for the next month, no matter how much Bruce wanted to.

They got to the car, and Bruce attempted to force Tim into the passenger seat.

“Tim, you have to let go of me.” He said, prying one of Tim’s hands off his shirt only for the other to snake up and grab his sleeve. Tim looked panicked.

“No-“ He rushed, “No, don’t leave-“

“Tim,” Bruce cut him off, “I’m not going anywhere, but you need to let go so I can get us home.” Home, he’d said. Not the manor. It wasn’t technically Tim’s home anymore, but Bruce could never seem to properly describe it as such.

“No – dad, _please_-“

“_Tim._” It was an order, and Tim’s reaction was immediate. He took his hands off Bruce’s suit, but the look on his face was devastated. Bruce moved quickly to the driver’s side and got in, throwing it in drive. He could’ve gotten the autopilot to drive them back to the cave, but they needed to get there _now_. Because more than the concerning weight loss and the painfully open vulnerability and the fact that the antidote wasn’t working – Tim had never called him dad. Never on purpose.

Maybe a few times when they were working on a case together and Tim slipped up, like how someone might accidentally call their teacher ‘mom’. But this was deliberate, like Tim had said it a hundred times before.

That, more than anything, made the tension in Bruce rise. Something was very wrong.

Tim kept mostly silent the rest of the drive, curling in on himself and staring but not really seeing out the window. He looked exhausted, and as his eyes started to close, ever so slowly, Bruce was hit with a wave of surprising nostalgia. This used to happen when Tim was Robin. Not often, but sometimes. Sometimes he’d nod off in the car, and Bruce would drive as carefully as possible until they made it to the cave. Then Bruce would sit there wondering if he should carry the boy to one of the guest rooms, and then he’d remember how he used to do that with Jason, and before he could be waylaid by the grief that came with thinking of Jason, he’d remind himself that Tim already had a father.

So Bruce would just shake Tim awake and tell him to hit the showers, Tim would blearily wander over to the locker room, and Bruce would wonder if he’d done the right thing.

Bruce had never forced himself into a fatherly role with any of his adopted children. Most of them had fathers before him, and his efforts would probably be unappreciated. Tim had never given any indication he needed a father figure in his life, had never tried to bond with Bruce like a father and son might. Tim was professional and present, and Bruce responded in kind. A mentor was something Bruce could be. A teacher. A leader. Not a father. Bruce wasn’t proud of how often that reminder was necessary.

Tim calling him ‘dad’ felt like a warning. Bruce just didn’t know what it was a warning for.

The batmobile skidded into the cave - empty, with only a slight blinking coming from the computer’s sleep mode. Bruce turned to Tim, who had somehow stayed asleep even through Bruce’s hasty driving. And Bruce was struck by just how _young_ he looked. Tim twitched in his sleep, his fingers clenched and relaxed at random intervals, and every few moments a shudder would wrack through him. Some kind of muscle spasms. Possibly due to whatever was still in his system.

Bruce got out and circled the car, reminding himself that Tim’s real father may be dead, but was still his father, and lifted the boy into his arms, once again struck by just how light he was.

Had he been taken? Attacked? Bruce took him to the med bay. It wasn’t out of the question that Tim had been mugged, but typical muggings didn’t tend to leave their victims with drug-addled symptoms. He set Tim down on a cot, taking out the necessary equipment to run a blood test. Once Tim woke up, Bruce could get answers. For now he needed to know whether or not whatever was in Tim’s system was deadly, and if he could stop it.

Bruce booted up the computer and thought. What the hell had Tim been doing to get himself in this condition? Bruce berated himself for taking Tim off patrol – if he’d been in uniform maybe he could’ve stood a fighting chance.

He had started the blood analysis as Alfred entered the cave, careful concern creeping across his features as he saw Tim on the med bay cot.

“Sir?” Alfred questioned.

“He was hit with something,” Bruce explained quickly, monotone, “I don’t know who did it, or how, or why, but it’s either powerful or an entirely new strain. Our Joker venom antidote did nothing.”

Alfred inspected Tim’s unconscious form for a moment. The muscle spasms had died down, but hadn’t disappeared completely. “He looks different.” Alfred said quietly, but loud enough that Bruce could still hear. “He was completely fine just a few hours ago.”

“I know.”

“What could do this in only a few hours?”

Bruce glared at the screen he was operating as if that would make it work faster. “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Alfred moved to join Bruce to see the blood test results, but barely made it ten paces before Tim woke up. The quick intake of air echoed through the cave, a gasp of terror that Bruce knew all too well as his own wake-up call most days. The only difference with Tim was it kept going, and it was quickly apparent that he was hyperventilating.

Alfred rushed to his side, cradling Tim’s head quickly before he could roll himself off the bed and onto the floor. Bruce watched, stock still from his station, not willing to leave when the test was so close to being finished, as Tim’s wild eyes darted unseeing around the room.

Alfred didn’t hesitate, speaking in a low and calm voice to Tim, reminding him where he was and the information they had about his situation. He repeated it until Tim seemed to actually retain it and catch his breath. Harsh gasps cut through the still air, and when he got his lungs under control, the words he’d been desperately mouthing caught wind.

“-_don’t send me back, please, please – please I can’t go back again please_.”

Bruce stiffened, not so much from the words, but from the gut wrenching pleading tone of voice. Tim sounded… broken.

“Not to worry, Master Tim.” Alfred assured, “You’re safe now. Whatever happened, you’re alright.”

Tim pulled in a shaky breath, “Where’s Bruce?” he croaked.

Alfred moved so Tim had a better line of sight, “He’s just over there, Master Tim.” But Tim’s eyes were still darting about, unseeing. His body twitching seemingly without his notice.

Bruce was by Tim’s side before he could stop, and chided himself for letting himself be distracted, despite Alfred’s approving glance. “I’m here, Tim.” He said, and Tim stilled almost immediately. Tim’s hand reached out for him, and Bruce took it in his own. Tim seemed to relax just an inch.

Bruce didn’t dare move, even when there was a beep to let him know the tests were done. The silence weighed heavily on all of them, with only Tim’s sharp inhales to keep company. Bruce heard soft footfalls descending the grandfather clock entrance, and knew without looking that Damian had come to investigate. Apparently still awake even after Bruce had implemented a 2 am curfew. Bruce counted it as progress that Damian merely stood by the batcomputer and stayed silent, choosing to observe instead of make a snide comment.

Eventually, Tim spoke.

“I told him everything, B.” Tim’s eyes were on the batcave ceiling, blank and unfocused, “I know that’s why you left, I know. I tried not to. But I still – I told him _everything_.”

Bruce sat beside Tim’s cot, trying to discern whether this was some kind of hallucination or if Tim had actually done something wrong. “Tim, what are you saying?” He tried to keep his tone gentle, but only succeeded in making it more grave.

“Dad,” Tim said quietly. Bruce leaned in closer to hear, “Dad, I’m sorry.” Tim searched Bruce’s face, looking for something. “I didn’t say it before. Back when it happened.” His eyes started to well with tears, and Bruce was struck once again by just how _open_, how _raw_ Tim was being.

“I’m sorry I killed him.”

Bruce froze. Tim stared up at him with pleading eyes, seeming not to notice the icy atmosphere that had descended over the cave.

“Please don’t be mad.” The ask was so quiet, and so oddly innocent. ‘Innocence’ wasn’t something Bruce tended to associate with Tim. He was always too mature for that. But here, Bruce was struck again by how _young_ Tim seemed. His suit was definitely just a hair too big for him, it made him look smaller.

“He would’ve made me do it to you,” Tim said, barely above a breath, but still echoing through the cave, or maybe just in Bruce’s ears. “I had to, B. I _had_ to.”

The silence stretched on, and Bruce watched as Tim pressed a shaky hand to his own mouth – whether to stop himself from laughing or vomiting, Bruce wasn’t sure.

Bruce’s throat felt like it was made of concrete, but he managed to get one word out.

“Who.”

Tim’s eyebrows twitched in confusion, like Bruce should’ve already known this. Like he was there, or like he should’ve been. And then, spoken through his hand, but still clear enough that Bruce could hear it.

“Joker.”

Bruce took a sharp inhale, every muscle tense, adrenaline singing, every nerve on high alert. Alfred stepped in before he could do something.

“Master Tim,” He said, only a small quiver in his voice betraying his own shock, “Would you allow me to check you for any physical injuries?”

It wasn’t really a question, and Bruce knew what he was doing. Simultaneously forcing Bruce away from a situation that would make him act… rashly, while checking to make sure Tim was in his right state of mind.

Bruce hurried away from the cot towards the computer, leaving Tim with Alfred.

“Damian.”

“Yes,” Damian appeared at his side, sounding just as shocked as Bruce felt. Neither of them could believe it. Bruce _wouldn’t_. Not without proof. So,

“Check the Arkham feeds, Joker’s cell.”

Damian got to work, too caught off guard to really argue. Bruce went to work of his own, checking news reports, sightings, anything. He didn’t catch any of Joker, but there was the Wayne Enterprises security cameras. There, at around three that morning, Tim was stumbling through the empty lobby towards the exit doors, seeming panicked or hurried. He was walking strange, but Bruce couldn’t tell if it was because of whatever he might’ve been given, or the shoes he’d tossed once he was arrested. He moved to scroll back, to see when Tim had arrived, where he’d gone.

“Father,” Damian’s voice pulled him to another monitor. “He’s alive.”

Bruce moved to the screen, eyes sharp. The live security footage showed Joker, sitting on his Arkham bed, seemingly without a care in the world despite the straitjacket confining him to his seat.

“Drake’s just delusional,” Damian said, a little of that bite back in his tone, “Typical.”

“Or,” Bruce countered, not taking his eyes off the screen, “It wasn’t actually Joker.”

“There may be… another explanation, sirs.” Alfred had walked up behind them, looking slightly shaken. Bruce tore his gaze from the Joker, looking instead to Alfred, and Tim, still back in the medical bay, still sat on his cot and out of earshot. His suit jacket and shirt had been removed.

“You may recall,” Alfred spoke in hushed tones, “A few months ago, while Master Bruce was lost in time, when Master Tim left for a brief sabbatical and, apparently, had misplaced his spleen somewhere in Turkey by the time he returned.”

“What are you saying, Alfred.”

“Well, either a miracle has occurred,” Alfred glanced back at Tim, who had crossed his arms over his chest, apparently cold, “Or that boy there is not the Timothy we know.”

And then Bruce saw it. Or rather, he saw what _wasn’t_ there. “Where’s his scar.” Bruce was quiet, staring at the boy who looked so much like Tim, but now that he was trying, Bruce kept noticing little differences. His arms were too thin, less muscled. His skin too clean, too pale (if possible) with barely – if any – scars on his torso.

“Like it was never there in the first place,” Alfred said gravely, “And, I’d guess, his spleen is probably there like it never left.”

“An imposter,” Damian hissed, whirling on Bruce, “And you brought him into the _cave_?”

“We need more information.” Bruce said, moving to the screen displaying the blood test results.

“A clone, perhaps?” Alfred wondered, “It would explain the spleen issue well enough.”

“But then why the behaviour.” Bruce made it into a statement rather than a question, “If there was an intent to replace Tim, his clone would have to act the part.” Whoever or whatever this was, acted nothing like Tim.

Except that wasn’t true. Bruce thought. The most unsettling part was that he acted exactly like Tim, just without defences. It was the Tim that Bruce had only ever seen in fits and spurts – through small cracks in Tim’s walls – but now on full display. It was hard to say any part of this was conclusively an act, it was all just so painfully… sincere.

The blood tests were clean.

Nothing but trace amounts of a harmless sedative that was still working its way through his system, and the antidote Bruce had administered earlier.

_So what’s wrong with him?_ Bruce frowned.

The DNA though, that was a 100% match. The clone theory was getting more and more plausible. But _why_? Who would want to clone or replace Tim Drake? And for what reason?

Bruce looked over his shoulder back to the med bay, but Tim’s cot was empty. Panicked, Bruce turned completely, but his heart quieted when he spotted Tim – or possibly not Tim – standing in front of the Robin memorial. He’d draped his suit jacket over his shoulders, holding it closed with his hands. His fingers shook slightly where they held the fabric.

Bruce made his way to Tim, whose face was blank, almost empty. Until he saw Bruce out of the corner of his eye, and then like a cup filling with water, that same mix of hope and fear and exhaustion returned.

“Tim,” Bruce started, he glanced over to Damian and Alfred, who watched warily over by the computer. “Can you tell me… what you remember.” A new clone wouldn’t have developed long term memories, and one with manufactured ones would still be spotty at best.

Tim had reached out, apparently unconsciously, and had grabbed hold of the hem of Bruce’s suit jacket. His fist was white-knuckled, but his face didn’t show any change. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing,” His voice was still raspy, still quiet, and Bruce had a thought that maybe he should bring him a glass of water, and then dismissed it. This wasn’t the real Tim, even if those threads of false confidence so familiar to him were bleeding through the fake Tim’s voice. “I sure don’t remember Dick ever wearing _this_.” He gestured to the glass case.

And then he squinted at the plaque, “And who’s ‘Jason’?”

Bruce looked to him in confusion. Tim smiled a little, shaky but trying at strong. “I’m not mad, B.” He placated, “You needed _somebody_ to fill in while I was away, but what’s with the scaly underpants?”

Bruce laid a tentative hand on Tim’s shoulder, and fought the warring reactions of suspicion and relief that arose when Tim leaned into the touch. “Let’s talk somewhere else.” He said. Away from Jason’s memorial. Where he could think clearly. Where he could get this… whoever this was to give him more pieces so he could see the picture.

This - Not Tim. Knew about Robin. Bruce reasoned as he led the Tim - not Tim - towards the steps out of the cave. No one trying to replace Tim would know about his connections to Batman. If they did, the possible culprits came down to a very short list of the few who knew.

Tim looked to Damian as they passed him and Alfred, curious, “Are you Jason? Why’s your suit up on display?”

Damian didn’t answer, and Bruce didn’t glance back to see his reaction. It was probably the same as Bruce’s. Tense and searching for an explanation. No one trying to replace Tim would forget about Damian, either.

Sensing the rigid atmosphere, Tim fell silent, letting Bruce lead him up to the study.

Bruce sat stiffly behind the desk, and Tim sat in the armchair with a relief and a familiarity that gave Bruce pause. This Tim - whoever he was - was acting like he’d been here before.

“Tim, I need you to tell me everything you remember.” Bruce was firm.

Tim nodded tiredly, his gaze fixed on the window. It was still dark outside, but he didn’t take his eyes off the darkened glass. “Memory tests,” he mumbled, “I know these. Did tons of them while I was away.” He laughed a little, “Do you want a new rendition or the original?”

Bruce stayed silent, waiting. Watching.

Tim bent his head as if scolded. “Okay, okay.” He said, “What do you want to know?”

“What happened before I brought you here?” Bruce kept his tone flat and blunt and insistent, and Tim’s brows twitched in confusion - at Bruce’s voice, or his own recollections, Bruce couldn’t tell.

Tim frowned, “Uh,” He said, “I was uh…”

Bruce watched as Tim shifted in his seat and brought a hand up to his face with awkward hesitance. His fingers tapped out a uneven pattern on his chin.

“Well I was in my room,” Tim reasoned. His tone of voice was casual, but he’d started picking at the skin of his lip in nervousness. “Probably, and uh - Alfred... was there. He said you’d come soon.” The corners of his mouth twitched up as he fought a giddy grin, and when Tim looked to Bruce again there was a shine and adoration in his eyes that Bruce felt like a blow. “And he wasn’t lying. Not this time.” Tim grinned.

“You were at your apartment?” Bruce prompted.

Tim looked confused, “Uh, you mean the old old place? Old ‘Shifty’ Drake’s place? No way, I live here now.” He paused, and glanced at Bruce, apprehensive, “I can live here again, right? That’s why you came to get me.” His fingers twitched again, his nervousness mounting at Bruce’s impassive expression, “C’mon, B. If you’re gonna send me anywhere just put me back on the streets.”

The forced levity made it clear Tim was on the verge of panic. “I can make it out there, you know? I lasted just fine before you came along, I - I could do it again. I wouldn’t even steal anymore, I’d get an honest job, and I wouldn’t tell _anybody_ ‘bout you or Robin.”

Tim’s voice started clipping into something with a looser cadence, a typical lower Gotham accent. Bruce furrowed his brow in confusion.

“I know - I know I _did_. And I know you don’t - I mean heck, _I_ wouldn’t trust me after that. But I promise, I _promise_ it won’t happen again, I’ll prove it, somehow. No matter how long it takes to get there.” Tim pleaded, though Bruce couldn’t discern what it was he was pleading for.

“Look - you’ve seen me. I’m healthy, right? Totally fine.” Tim had gotten up out of the chair now, gesturing with jerky, aborted movements. “Sending me back would just be wasting good Gotham tax dollars, and I don’t even need - I’m cured, anyway, so. So you don’t have to send me back.”

Tim stared at Bruce. Bruce stared back, trying to make sense of… anything Tim was saying. He watched levelly as Tim searched for something in Bruce’s expression. Not finding it, Bruce tracked Tim’s face as it cracked and collapsed in despair, reopening into something sharp and vindictive and scared.

“Look I know you got a new kid now, but I could still help out. Y’know, teach him a thing or two about taking down Two Face and them.” Tim bargained, “I’m useless if I’m just sitting in a boring old room all day, c’mon.”

Tim stopped, waiting for Bruce’s response nervously. Bruce didn’t give it. Staring at this boy was like looking at a half-finished jigsaw puzzle. The edges and corners of him were there, but the image wasn’t clear yet. Tim stilled in the silence, eyeing Bruce with trepidation and then shuttering into something darker.

“They experimented on me.” Tim blurted angrily, as if Bruce had even a modicum of understanding, “When I’d act up. They’d stick needles in me and cut me open. Looking for him - they thought he put something in my head, to make me as crazy as him.”

“Who-” But Bruce was cut off.

“How could you send me back, after that?” Tim was talking louder and faster now, words tripping over each other, “You wouldn’t - you wouldn’t, right? They put stuff in my _food_, Dad. They wanted me - like, they wanted me to be _sick_, and I was getting better so _they made me sick_. Isn’t that just -?” And Tim interrupted himself with a bark of laughter. No joy in it, something loud and abrasive, “Isn’t that just _sick_?”

He laughed again, sharp sounds that punched their way out of him.

The not-knowing irritated Bruce like a mosquito bite, but his chest still jumped with a feeling of concern-

Tim slammed a hand down onto the desk with a harsh _bang_, cutting off his own laughter like an uninvited guest. His other hand pressed harshly to his mouth, his shoulders shaking. And in a quick motion Tim had ducked out of his line of sight, crouched in front of the desk.

Bruce pushed his chair back and made his way around, movements quiet and cautious. Tim had his forehead resting against the hardwood backing, hand still clenched around the lip of the desk, shaking.

If this was supposed to be some kind of trick, Tim - this Tim, other Tim, whoever he was - didn’t seem in on it.

Bruce didn’t put a hand on Tim’s shoulder, even though he may have wanted to. Even though seeing this boy like this snatched something up in his chest and _pulled_.

“Tim,” He said lowly, quietly, “Back where?”

“D-” Tim sucked in a breath, ribcage shaking. The words were casual but his voice was strung tight and spilled fast, “Don’t tell me you forgot.”

“Back _where_, Tim?”

Tim exhaled and shifted, twisting until he sat on the carpet, resting his back against the desk. Now that the bouts of laughter had passed, it was like all the energy was sapped from his bones. His eyes closed, exhausted, voice strung out and reedy, “Don’t send me back to Arkham, dad.”

~

Getting Tim to bed took much longer than Bruce had anticipated. He was fine to trail along towards his room in the manor, and fine to climb into his blankets, but it took some coaxing to get him to let go of Bruce’s jacket.

“Dad?”

Bruce paused by the doorway.

“Can you leave the lights on?”

Bruce gave a small nod, and moved to shut the door. “Goodnight, Tim.”

“Wait, can you… leave the door open?”

Bruce did, and stepped out with another, “Goodnight, Tim.”

“Night, dad.” 

Damian was in the hallway when Bruce stepped out, clearly eavesdropping. He raised his eyebrows expectantly, and Bruce sighed, feeling like he needed a good long rest as well.

Bruce beckoned him to the cave.

“He’s from another universe.” Bruce said, “Either that, or someone made a severe mistake when implanting artificial memories.”

Damian’s arms crossed as he followed Bruce through the cave, probably more frustrated with the situation at hand than any actual animosity towards Tim, though Bruce could never be sure. “Wonderful,” He said flatly, “Good to know Drake is hysterical and neurotic in every universe.”

“And that is exactly what you won’t say.” Bruce ordered, crossing the cave towards the comms systems, and then amended, “Not in front of him.”

Bruce hadn’t been able to get much more out of Tim after the Arkham confession, he’d fallen asleep in the middle of asking something, which was just so _Tim_ it sort of made Bruce’s heart hurt. Bruce had gone to get him settled in a room, and had deliberated for a very long time whether to place him in Tim’s – _their _Tim’s – room, or a guest room. In the end, he’d played it safe and went with Tim’s room, realizing with some sadness that it hadn’t been used in what must’ve been months.

Damian followed after, the distaste clear in his voice, “Does this mean we’ll have _two_ of him wandering around?”

“Can’t say for sure.” Bruce clipped a headset to his ear and switched to the general comms channel. “But I’d like to find out.”

He turned slightly away from Damian to address the headset, “This is Batman to all available. I want everyone to keep an eye out for Red Robin, civilian or otherwise, and report back.”

“_Is something wrong?_” Barbara asked immediately.

Before Bruce could respond, Stephanie cut in, “_I talked to him like a few hours ago. He lied about Golden Girls and then told me to go watch Oswald cut his own toenails.”_ Bruce breathed a tired sigh as she continued, _“If you ask me, he’s probably doing something purposely stupid as petty revenge on Bats for forcing him to celebrate his birthday without the uniform.”_

There was a pause, and then a voice that was distinctly Dick’s went, “_Oh my god._”

Stephanie said, “_You forgot too, huh?_”

“_I can’t believe this,_” Dick groaned, “_I mean _him _forgetting about it is one thing but-_”

“_Oh yeah, that’s basically a given._”

“Can you all _focus_, please.” Bruce grumbled into the mic, regretting not for the first time even having a comms system in the first place. “This is about Red Robin’s whereabouts, not his birthday.”

“_Wouldn’t _you_ be the best to answer that question, B?_” Barbara said, “_I’ve got security footage of you carrying Red out of the GCPD station only a few hours ago._”

“_Called it,_” Stephanie said, satisfied, “_Petty and stupid. Did he sufficiently piss you off, B? What did he do to get himself arrested?_”

“That wasn’t-” Bruce cut himself off, “The situation is more complicated than that. Just keep an eye out.”

“_Ah, cryptic as usual._” Stephanie said, “_You’re getting predictable, B._”

_“Is there something wrong with Red?_” Dick asked, “_What’s going on?_”

Damian cut in, his voice echoing strangely both in Bruce’s ear and the cave, “Red Robin has a doppelganger from another universe,” Evidently fed up with Bruce ignoring him and having taken a headset for himself. “He’s staying in the manor, which I’d like to put on the record as a bad decision, since this counterpart is untrustworthy and most likely deranged.”

“Damian.” Bruce scolded, over the comms Dick did the same. Damian made a face.

“_Wait,” _Stephanie processed, “_Does this mean there’s two?_”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, “We don’t know yet.” He said, “So anyone who _can_ needs to keep an eye out. Red Robin may be the only one who knows how or _why _this happened in the first place.”

_“Omg, can I talk to the new one?”_ Stephanie said, apparently stubborn in her determination to be the kind of person that said ‘omg’ out loud.

“No.” Bruce said, “Preferably, he won’t interact with anyone other than myself, Robin, and Agent A. But absolutely no contact until we at least know more about his universe.” Arkham already painted an unsettling picture, but if what this Tim had suggested about the Joker was true, Bruce wanted to keep him as contained as possible.

_“I want to see him.”_ Cass stated, quiet until now.

“No.” Bruce repeated, “He doesn’t know, and it’s better to keep it that way.”

Dick was incredulous, _“He doesn’t know he’s from a different universe?”_

Damian leaned back in his chair, “I’d be surprised if he knows his times tables.”

Bruce ignored this, “Like I said, it’s a complicated situation.” And then, because Bruce felt like they all needed the reminder, “Don’t do anything stupid. Batman out.” And he cut the feed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter Kicked my Ass yall
> 
> btas!Tim's POV is coming soon, but stay tuned for next chapter where the other Tim has a lot of conversations about his personal issues
> 
> ps I know Tim never called Bruce 'dad' in the animated series, but I wanted to show how their relationship was a lot more father/son than comic Bruce and Tim
> 
> Officer Skelton is named after Red Skelton, a radio/tv comedy personality, known for the 1953 film "The Clown"


	5. Arkham: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim doesn’t like thinking about his feelings.
> 
> I went ahead and changed the tags for this chapter but just as a warning there are references to self-harm in this and probably future chapters, stay safe yall I love you.

When Tim woke up again, it was to an ache in his neck and those now-familiar restraints pinning him to the bed.

There was this moment that always happened, just after he’d regain consciousness, where Tim thought of nothing at all. After every sleep, the second before his brain came back online and his lungs pulled in their first conscious breath, where there was nothing. Just calm.

He used to like it. He used to barely think about it. But more and more the moments after the calm would be a psychedelic interior slideshow of all the painful things he’d forgotten in sleep. His dad. His mom. Kon, Bart, Bruce. Losing Robin, losing everything else.

And the questions, and the doubt. And the exhaustion.

Hope was worse when it was taken away. It was better to pretend you never had it in the first place.

God, waking up was a bitch. 

He was alone in the room, and it was the same as always. Sterile white walls, ceiling, bed, window. But the absence hit harder, this time. The alone-ness was visceral, and it tensed the muscles in his shoulders, and it tightened the skin around his eyes.

Because Alfred had left.

More than that, Alfred didn’t believe him.

And why would he? And of course he didn’t. And Tim’s story was crazy anyway, and only _might’ve_ been given serious thought were his context anywhere _but_ an asylum. And maybe it wasn’t the context that actually mattered, because even when Tim _wasn’t_ shackled to a white room and had told people what he _knew_ was right they didn’t believe him. And maybe it was just Tim who was suspect. And maybe he’d spend the rest of his days stuck in this place because he was stupid enough to play his most important card at the worst possible moment.

Tim tried to take an even breath in through his nose, but it shook. And he kept his eyes closed, but a warm tear escaped and ran down his temple to cool in the shell of his ear. It felt like a betrayal.

He had to get out of here.

~

“That was quite the outburst yesterday.”

Tim said nothing.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Dr. Grock paused, waiting for his answer. When she got none, she continued. “Do you mind if I ask you about some of the things you said? About… you said you were from another dimension?”

“Universe,” Tim corrected tiredly.

“Do you understand why we had to return to the restraints?”

“No.”

“This isn’t a punishment, Tim. It’s a precaution. Before I can allow you free roam of your room and this office, I need to know you can cooperate and communicate effectively.” It sounded like Dr. Grock had gone through this with him many times. “Without using violence.”

“Do you want to know what _I_ think, Dr. Grock?” Tim bit out, muscles tense against the armrests, his failure to get through to Alfred still fresh, “I think you’ve put both of us in a cycle that’s only ever going to make things worse.”

Dr. Grock blinked, but didn’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“If you put a person in a cage,” Tim said, “And then they start screaming, reacting like any person would, you might point to that and say that the cage must’ve been necessary all along. Look at how dangerous this person is, fighting against the cage like that, therefore the cage itself is needed, or else that person might act violent outside of it.”

“You’re talking about a preemptive response.” Dr. Grock said, “Something done in anticipation of another action.”

“I’m _talking_ about how I wouldn’t be fighting any restraints if there weren’t any to fight against.” Tim insisted. If he could convince her of this, maybe he’d get more freedom of movement. He’d be able to plan an escape better. “The only evidence you have for their necessity is that I keep fighting them. Don’t you think the problem might be the restraints, instead of me?”

Dr. Grock seemed to think about this, tapping a finger slowly against the table. “Okay,” She said, “Let’s talk about your cage theory. How much evidence would we need, that – whether in their right mind or not – that this… hypothetical person could qualify as a danger to themself or others?” She stared at him quizzically, “How much proof would _you_ need before agreeing that perhaps, for the sake of everyone’s safety, the cage is necessary? After they shoot a man with his own trick gun? After they attack not only their first psychologist, but seven more after that? After they repeatedly attempt to harm themself and others, going so far as breaking windows and ceramics in order to find something sharp?” She leaned forward a little, “Based on the evidence,” She said, “I’d say a very large factor in me continuing to be your psychologist, is the fact that we’ve taken preemptive action to stop any violence you might try to take against me. Do you agree?”

Tim frowned, “But that _wasn’t me_-“

“Yes,” Dr. Grock agreed, “You were under duress, in stressful situations, and your mental health suffered greatly after the trauma you experienced. But that’s why you’re _here_, Tim. Receiving treatment in a specialized facility, rather than receiving punishment in a juvenile prison.”

“I mean that the person who did that literally wasn’t me.” Tim said sharply. Cat was out of the bag already, may as well commit, “I told you already, I’m-“

“From another universe?” Dr. Grock finished. “Tim, I’d like to believe you, I do. But do you have any actual proof, or evidence? Because _we_ have evidence that you often put on personas or characters, sometimes for months at a time. Your stories make complete sense to you in the moment, but they aren’t real, Tim.”

Tim bit the inside of his cheek in frustration, looking to the wall.

Dr. Grock continued, gentler now, “Think of it this way; heroes, ones like the Justice League, almost always have to _react_ to threats. The bad people have to do the bad things _first_, and then the heroes stop them. If the Justice League were to attack anyone they found suspicious, but hadn’t technically done anything yet, that wouldn’t be justice. _That_ is the preemptive action you’re arguing against. Taking action against someone without having any _real_ reason or cause. Without evidence. Based on what you know, would you say that the Arkham staff’s actions to limit your personal mobility are based on evidence, or suspicion?”

Tim didn’t answer. He knew what she was looking for, and didn’t want to give it to her. Maybe it was petty, but Tim didn’t have a lot of options.

“Similarly,” Dr. Grock continued, “If someone has proven that they’re working to be better, and is genuinely on the path to redemption, it would also be unjust to place suspicion on them because of their past, wouldn’t you say?”

Tim scowled. He remembered his conversation with Stephanie, and god, that felt like a lifetime ago now.

_“Benefit of the doubt is sort of in a hero’s job description.”_

_“This isn’t about being a hero, it’s about stopping bad things from happening before they happen.”_

Tim set his jaw in something like defense, “Some people don’t get better.” This argument was stupid, and he was stupid for bringing it up. But if he could at least save his pride in the face of hopelessness, maybe it would stop him from giving up entirely.

Dr. Grock’s expression rarely changed, but for a small moment she looked… almost sad. “Do you really believe that, Tim?”

“Eventually you cross a line that can’t ever be uncrossed.” Tim argued, “You can’t un-burn a bridge, you can’t un-murder a person. That’s why Batman doesn’t kill. If he did, he’d be irredeemable.”

Dr. Grock was back to tapping slowly at her desk, “I’d always thought,” She said, “Batman doesn’t kill because he believes anyone _can_ be redeemed.”

Tim scoffed. If that were true, this universe’s Tim wouldn’t be locked away in Arkham. “You really think,” He said, “That _anyone_ can get better. Anyone.”

“Yes.” Dr. Grock said, no hesitation.

“Even the Joker?” Tim asked sharply. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch up when he saw her pause. “After everyone he’d killed, all the lives he’d taken, all the people he’s left for dead or worse, you’d still be comfortable with him being free as a bird, just so long as he _proved himself_.”

Dr. Grock’s eyes were like stone.

“Yes.” She said finally. “I do. It’s part of my job to think so. If I don’t have hope for my patients, how are they supposed to have it for themselves?”

Dark cynicism bit at Tim’s tongue, “You know, the last psychologist who thought that about the Joker ended up-“

“_I know_,” Dr. Grock said sharply, “What happened to Doctor Quinn.”

Tim fell silent. He’d hit a nerve, and the desire to keep pushing at it was there, but something stopped him.

“It’s not true, anyway.” Tim said, cavalier, “No one gets to be completely free after they’ve done something horrible. It’s not a one and done deal, not as easy as proving yourself just the once. Ask anyone with a criminal record. As soon as you have something labelling you a bad person, and you _really _want to be better, you have to spend every _second_ of every day proving it. Nobody else has to do that. That’s just the way it is.”

“But is that the way it should be?” Dr. Grock asked. “Tim, if you’re ever going to improve your condition, you have to actually _believe_ that you can. Without that hope, how can you move forward?”

Tim groaned, “I _already told you_-“

“Okay,” Dr. Grock held a hand up in surrender, but Tim knew she was just compromising. “Let’s say, you’re not the same Tim who was kidnapped by the Joker. You’re from… some other universe, where you’ve experienced tragedy, similar to Bruce Wayne, but not Arkham. Speaking as the Tim who _didn’t_ take violent action against the Joker-“

“I already _am_-“

“-do you think that the other Tim could be redeemed?”

Tim paused. He was inclined to say yes, because he’d dealt with self-defense murder cases, and he knew that those people were technically innocent. But,

“Bruce wouldn’t think so.” He said finally.

“You believe Bruce thinks of you as a murderer.” It was phrased like a question, but she spoke it like a statement.

Tim said nothing, feeling like this was a trap.

“Can you tell me,” Dr. Grock rephrased, “Some of your feelings about Bruce Wayne? You two were quite close.”

“I…” Tim paused, “He’s -” _a hero. A teacher, a mentor. Someone to look up to, but not to copy. The only adult that had treated Tim like he was worth something more than what he was. A good man. Determined. Manipulative. Harsh. An asshole, a lot of the time. The second father figure to die on Tim’s watch._

“Do you think of him as a father?”

Tim’s response was automatic, “He adopted me, so.”

“I’m not asking about legal documents.”

Tim focused on keeping his hands still, “Yeah, I guess I do.” He said, because he couldn’t think of a real answer in time.

“You don’t sound sure.” Dr. Grock was frustratingly perceptive sometimes. “You worry, often,” She said, “About what he might think of you.”

Tim laughed a little, “I know exactly what he thinks of me. That’s sort of the problem.” If this universe’s Bruce _didn’t_ think that this universe’s Tim was a murderer, neither Tim would be in this situation.

Dr. Grock gave him a level look, “But what do _you_ think, Tim?”

No, he couldn’t be redeemed, Tim thought. Of course not. Other Tim might’ve done it in self-defense, might not have known what he was doing, might have been just as innocent as any of the cases Tim had come across before. But that wasn’t an excuse. Not for him, not for Robin. They had to be better than that. Other Tim had crossed the line when he knew better, and landed himself in Arkham. A fate he was now sharing with _real_ Tim, and Tim wasn’t inclined to forgive him for that.

“Yeah,” He lied, “I think he could redeem himself.” No room for the truth if he was trying to escape, “Maybe he’d have already redeemed himself if you all stopped treating him like a dangerous animal.” He gestured as best he could down to the restraints. Just this one thing, if he could just convince her of this one thing-

“This may seem unfair to you, Tim. But you have to trust me when I say it’s what’s best.”

“You _said_ people could be better if they prove themselves.” Tim said quickly, “So let me prove myself. I promise, I won’t do anything. I won’t get up unless you tell me to, I’ll sit down when you tell me to. Cooperation, right? I’ll cooperate. Just let me prove it.”

Dr. Grock pursed her lips. Tim could tell she was considering it. “You have to understand,” Dr. Grock started, “That if _any_ kind of incident occurs, it would give us enough reason to go back to this, or more extreme measures. Indefinitely. Do we agree?”

“Yes, yeah. Totally.” Tim nodded.

Dr. Grock stood up, circling her desk until she was in front of Tim. Holy shit, this was actually happening. “You need to stay in the chair for now, okay?”

“Okay.” Tim nodded again, maybe a little too enthusiastically.

Then she crouched, and began unbuckling the clasps. And he was free.

Well – not really. Now the only thing keeping him in the chair was the knowledge that he’d be stuck there by force if he didn’t. But he _could_ get up, if he wanted to. And that was the exciting part. Choice. He _didn’t _want to, because he understood the consequences, but he still could.

“So,” Dr. Grock returned to her side of the table, but Tim appreciated her unhurried nature about it. Most of the staff tensed up during the moments he wasn’t tied down to something. “Tell me a little more about your universe.”

Tim got the impression that a lot of their talks would be steered towards ‘his universe’, gently but persistently, the way she was about ‘Jason’.

Of course, Dr. Grock was operating on a hypothetical level. Anything he said would be filtered through whatever it was supposed to represent about his inner demons or something. ‘His universe’ was the new reflection of his subconscious.

“Fine,” Tim replied, playing along. “Similar to here. An adoptive dad in Bruce Wayne, a brother in Dick Grayson. An Alfred.”

“And, in this universe, what were your parents like, before they were killed?”

Tim rolled his wrist, pleased that he could, “They were fine. They loved me.”

“Could you elaborate on that?”

“Uh,” Tim searched, “Y’know. They made sure I was fed, that I was doing alright in school.”

“Did they spend a lot of time with you?”

“Enough, yeah.” Tim shrugged, feeling with some resentment like Dr. Grock was trying to lead him somewhere. “They were adults with responsibilities and busy jobs and they did their best.”

Dr. Grock said nothing, and Tim couldn’t read anything in her expression, which was more frustrating than anything else.

“They had to travel a lot, but it wasn’t their fault.” He explained, “They loved me, they just had stuff to do.”

And Dr. Grock stayed quiet and contemplative, and it reminded Tim of Bruce a little too much. He knew what she was doing, what she was trying to do. But he could tell she was starting to form a kind of judgement, a kind of pity, and it made Tim’s skin itch.

When people learned about Tim’s parents, they tended to make assumptions about the kind of parents they were. And it changed the way they looked at Tim. It was unfair that dead people always got stuck with a one-dimensional interpretation, especially when they weren’t there to dispute it themselves. Unable to prove they were anything more than ‘absent’, or whatever people thought of them as.

“Not every family has to be like the fucking Brady bunch,” Tim blurted, surprising himself with his own defensiveness, “Parents can have a life outside their kid.”

“I’m not arguing that,” Dr. Grock said, and it sounded condescending, but she changed the subject before Tim could verify, “Did anything change when Bruce adopted you? Was there anything surprising or different from the way your parents interacted with you?”

Tim wasn’t about to tell her just how much everything had changed. And also how nothing had really changed. Bruce had been a mentor for Tim long before he was a legal guardian, and he stayed in that role even after. But there was still something affirming about having it down on paper, something official, tangible that Tim could point to and remember that Bruce wanted him there.

“Sort of,” Tim managed, “Bruce had less responsibility, so he was more available.” Which was a lie. Bruce was burdened with more responsibility Tim had ever seen on a single person. The difference was that Tim could share that responsibility, and there was companionship in it. Until Bruce’s ‘death’, of course, but Tim made the decision not to think about that.

Dr. Grock was thoughtful, then blindsided him with a, “Would you describe yourself as a lonely person, Tim?”

“What?” Tim stumbled, “No.”

“Solitary, then.” Dr. Grock amended. At his confused expression she tried again, “Independent.”

“Sure, I guess.” Tim agreed tentatively, unsure where she was taking this. “I work better on my own, always have.”

“Can you think of a time in your life when you had to work in a group? It could be a school project, a club you were part of, a group of people you spent time with.” Dr. Grock suggested, “Family included, adopted or otherwise.”

Tim frowned, unsure what she wanted from him and unsure how to tailor his answers to suit that. “Yeah,” he said, “Yeah, sort of. We didn’t live close to each other, but we were kind of like a weekend club.” He didn’t specify that they had lived in entirely different states. Commute wasn’t a huge problem with super speed, or flight. Or a batjet.

“And what did you all do together?”

Tim rubbed the fabric of his hospital shirt between his fingers. “It was sort of like a… youth volunteer community service thing. Helping people out, cleaning up the streets, getting cats out of trees. Most of the time we were just messing around, though. We had sleepovers, went to sports games… friend stuff.”

“And how did you feel, when you were with this group?”

“Uh, good, I guess.” Tim stared very hard at a small scuff on the wall of Dr. Grock’s office. “Happy.”

“Did you have to stop seeing them when you came here?”

“No, we-“ Tim frowned in frustration, “Uh, we disbanded, eventually.”

Dr. Grock cocked her head just a little, “Was there a fight, or-“

“No,” Tim worked very hard to keep his voice even, still rubbing at his shirt in repetitive, almost soothing motions. “No, uh…” He took a breath, “Some of them died, so.” And what the hell was that? _Some of them died_. There had to be a better way to explain it. “Two of them died.” Tim amended, feeling like he was digging himself into the world’s shittiest grave, but unable to stop. “Not at the same time, well – kind of. There was… an accident. And one of them died, and the other one survived but. He wasn’t the same. And then he died too, later. So.” Tim shrugged, aiming for casual but missing the mark, “So it was sort of hard to keep hanging out after that.”

And it was. Cassie and Tim were the only two left, with Anita and Cissie out of the business, and when they spent time together, Tim couldn’t help but feel like they were trying to find something in each other that was already gone. Something that had died with Kon and Bart. Tim thought it would get easier, he hoped it would get easier. But the opposite turned out to be true. It got more painful, and eventually neither of them could keep it up.

Kon and Bart had come back, of course. But whatever Tim and Cassie had been looking for in each other hadn’t come back with them. There had been so many deaths reversed that Tim had been witness to. And maybe the people being gone wasn’t permanent, but whatever part of Tim that they had taken to their temporary grave would stay lost to him.

Something had changed in Tim when Stephanie died, and had changed again when Kon died, and when Bart died, and when Bruce died. And they were all back, alive like they never left. But Tim was different in a way he couldn’t describe.

And seeing Cassie was like looking into a mirror of that. That feeling of emptiness, of something missing. A silence where a sound should be, compounding and doubling up until it became unbearable.

“I’m sorry, Tim.” Dr. Grock’s voice was gentle. And it sounded sincere.

“Don’t.” Tim said, the word forcing its way out like steam in a kettle. “Don’t.” He repeated.

Dr. Grock kept up the gentle tone, “Don’t what, Tim?”

And how could he explain in a way that wouldn’t sound pathetic? _Don’t be kind, please._ _Don’t say sorry, don’t say it’s okay, don’t say it’ll get better, please. Don’t be kind, don’t try to understand, don’t try to help, or offer anything._ Because Tim knew he would take it, and he knew he would break apart. And he knew the guilt and shame that would come after.

The room was so quiet that Tim could hear himself breathing, loud in his ears. And then, after an eternity, Dr. Grock seemed to understand that this was something Tim was not going to talk about.

“How do you feel when you’re on your own?”

“Fine. Productive.”

He saw her lips twitch downward in something like sympathy, and Tim didn’t care for that shit at all. “Do you enjoy being on your own?”

“I’m very good at it.”

“But do you enjoy it?”

Tim frowned, “Yeah,” He lied, “I’m fine.”

“But even in your own... universe, you’re alone often?”

“I have a full time job,” Technically, he had two. “So I don’t have an incredible social life. It’s not that uncommon.”

“And are you happy there?” Dr. Grock asked, “In your own universe?”

Tim opened his mouth to say an easy yes, but stopped. He could lie, he had been lying, quite easily up until this point. But something told him Dr. Grock would just _know_. Like she could smell it on him or something. Was he so obviously miserable that he didn’t think he could convincingly lie about it? That was concerning. Arkham was shit, obviously. And Alfred’s leaving still left him sore. He couldn’t walk around on his own. The food was bland, and only really getting to talk to one person every day was grating if anything.

But Arkham was a puzzle. With a clearly defined starting point (a cell) and a clear end goal (escape). It wasn’t exciting or _fun_. But it motivated him in a way he hadn’t been for a long time. Back home there were cases to solve, sure. And it was like a compulsion, to stick his hands in and search until he found the answer. But solving each case was exhausting, and draining. And starting a new one was much the same. Because all he could think about was how there was no real _end_ to them.

He was stuck, not in the more literal sense like he was here. And at least here, he could get out. If only he could figure out how. Of course he wasn’t happy in Arkham, but Christ, he couldn’t remember the last time he was, even outside of it.

Tim settled on, “No more or less than here.” And wasn’t that just depressing.

And he knew what question would be next.

“Then why do you want to go back?”

And Tim didn’t have an answer.

~

Tim circled his room, and thought.

It was four paces from one corner of the room to the next, a slight turn, another four paces, a slight turn. The bed was in the way on this one, still bolted to the floor, and bolted to the wall, so it was six paces. An extra for the step up, a springing step aided by the mattress, an extra for the step down.

A slight turn, the door frame interrupted the steady white noise of his fingers brushing against the wall - not drywall, something almost like fabric, but not so obvious that he could say they’d put him in an actual padded room. The small gap between the frame and the door created a stutter in the noise, two times. One for the right side, one for the left.

A slight turn, the observation window created another, longer interruption. A small scrape of hard plastic frame and then a long quiet slip until he reached the other end of the window and the low soothing scrape of not-drywall against fingers started again.

A slight turn, a long low note, a slight turn, an extra step up, an extra step down, a slight turn, stutter once, twice, a slight turn, a long quiet pause with nothing but a tingling sensation in his fingers and the hush of his bare feet against carpet and then, a slight turn, a long low note, a slight turn, an extra step up, an extra step down.

Patterns were sort of Tim’s area. That was where detective work lived, in patterns, picking up the repetitions where other people couldn’t see.

Stutter once, twice. A slight turn.

A long quiet pause.

Tim tried to find patterns.

Tim didn’t have a lot of hobbies anymore. He remembered he used to. Photography, tennis, skateboarding. Before he got too busy to keep up with them, he used to have quite a few. He remembered having a lot of time on his hands, and so trying to find ways to keep busy with any number of mindless tasks. Now, with too much time and nothing to do, he resorted to walking in circles.

A slight turn, a long low note, a slight turn, step up, step down. Stutter once, twice. A slight turn.

A long quiet pause.

“Do you think anyone is looking for you? The people back in your own universe?” Dr. Grock had asked him during an earlier session, and he was still thinking about it, frustratingly unable to keep himself from it.

He’d never even considered the possibility that anyone would be looking for him. At the time he’d told her that it wouldn’t be very proactive of him to just sit around and wait for a rescue. But there was a seed of something dark and heavy that had bloomed in his chest.

Turn. A note. Turn. Up, down. Turn. Stutter stutter, turn.

A long, quiet pause.

The seed festered and grew and he was still thinking about it. “Do you think anyone is looking for you?” And he hadn’t wanted to admit to her that they probably hadn’t noticed he was gone. It wasn’t that they didn’t care, they were just busy. They had stuff to do. They wouldn’t be looking for him.

And a little voice in his head repeated her stupid fucking penultimate question.

_So why did he want to go back?_

Turn note turn up down turn stutter stutter turn.

And a long. Quiet pause.

Obvious answers occurred to him. He wasn’t stuck in Arkham there, for one. He had money and agency and a place to himself and friends and family that it hurt to see sometimes, even though he could never fully describe why. But the obvious answers didn’t feel like enough.

“Do you enjoy being on your own?” Not really. But it was nice, in a way. No expectations. He existed differently on his own than he did with other people. When he was with other people, Tim had to realize himself as a human being. Had to see himself in the context of other people. He had shape, and sharp edges. When he was by himself Tim could disappear.

Turn note turn up down turn stutter stutter turn.

A long. Quiet. Pause.

“When a feeling has been around for some time,” Dr. Grock had said, “Regardless of whether it’s positively or negatively affecting your health - feelings like calm, or fear, or excitement, or chaos,” She paused, “Or loneliness - if they’ve been around long enough, can start to feel like home.”

Tim hadn’t said anything, and she continued. “Even if this feeling hurts, if the hurt is familiar enough, it becomes a comfort. It’s natural to want to stay in that state, and it’s natural to want to return to it if you leave. Because at least there, you know how it feels, and how it works.

“And moving on, healing, is not always comfortable. It’s almost never fun. It’s often scary. But Tim, I promise that trying to go back to this… place you have in your mind, it won’t help.”

Turn note turn up down turn stutter stutter turn.

And a long -

He wasn’t who she thought he was. She was talking about whatever the Joker had done to that Other Tim that had apparently scarred him so bad he’d ended up here. She was talking about trauma, like an actual traumatic experience.

Being alone wasn’t traumatizing. It was just-

Quiet -

It was just sad.

Tim’s feet had stilled on the carpet, hand still pressed to the glass of the observation window, lungs breathing in and out. He wondered absently if he was being watched through the dark glass, wondered if they were taking notes on him, if they were counting how many times he’d done this same loop. He wondered what conclusions they were drawing from it, whether they thought it was some kind of abnormal behavior or if he was just sort of pitiful.

He remembered Mr. Joey. Mr. Joey the English teacher, Mr. Joey of plastic bags and pitying smiles and _Montana _who had assigned to the class _Dante’s Inferno_ one semester. Tim didn’t read it, was too busy to bother. He’d bombed the essay, but Mr. Joey had just clapped a hand on his shoulder and told him ‘don’t worry about it, champ’. Because he was a nice guy and because he wasn’t from Gotham and because he’d apparently decided that orphans get a passing grade even if their essay is only one page long and a grammatical disaster.

Tim found himself wondering about Dante. Wondering if maybe Dante had ever wanted to stop on his journey through hell. If maybe Dante ever didn’t want to continue, because the things he would see in the next circle might be too terrible for him to handle. He wondered if Dante thought maybe Heaven wasn’t worth all this. The promise of happiness paled in comparison to all the shit he’d have to slog through to get there.

Tim wondered if Dante could’ve just... gotten used to it. Surrounded by people being buried and set on fire and people with their heads twisted or severed, pelted with icy rain and hunted by monsters, thinking to himself ‘_well, it could be worse_’. The description already sounded like Gotham. And if Gotham was basically the Inferno already, Tim had gotten used to _that_.

Tim’s balance listed to the side, he might’ve been dehydrated but maybe he was just tired. His ear and shoulder pressed to the glass, completely still. There was nothing, not a single sound.

He wondered if he was losing his mind in here.

But honestly, who would care if he did, right? Everyone here thought he was crazy anyway. Nobody back in his own universe would even notice he was gone.

Though they might, eventually. They might find his bo staff in his abandoned apartment and assume the worst. Everyone would grieve, sure. Give him a nice headstone beside his mom and dad, marking an official end to the Drake family line. Pitiful. No body, but that wouldn’t matter. No one would be looking for him.

Tim had never read Dante’s Inferno, but he remembered a few lines from it, read out during English class. The words had worn into him without much meaning, just something stuck in his head. Like a song or a rhyme or a tune.

When Virgil had said, _“What are you staring at? Why let your vision linger there down among the disconsolate and mutilated shades? You found no reason to delay like this at any other pit.”_

And Dante had said, _“If you had given heed to what my reason is for looking, perhaps you would have granted a longer stay.”_

Which, to Tim, sounded like a fancy way of saying _I don’t know._

~

When Alfred came again, Tim felt more exhausted than he had in a while. At least before when he was tired he could still keep busy, knowing he was tired for a reason, and that reason was important, and it meant something.

Now, he was just… nothing. In form and feeling.

Alfred looked tired too.

Tim realized in a detached sort of way that Alfred was looking at him with a familiar expression. It was the same face he usually made when he was thinking about Jason, and presumably all the pain and drama that came with the topic. It was strange to have it directed at him.

Alfred started with the regular pleasantries, skirting around any mention of Tim’s condition or recovery. And Tim did his best to remain impartial and detached. This wasn’t _his_ Alfred, Tim reminded himself, he didn’t owe this Alfred anything.

But he also wasn’t prepared to see Alfred looking so… _sad._

Tim finally asked, “How’s Babs doing lately?” because he couldn’t think of anything else to say.

Alfred, steadfastly making this conversation work even if he had to force it, latched on to this.

He told Tim she’d recently enrolled in the Gotham Police Academy, which was surprising, since Tim remembered her getting her degree in Library Science. But maybe she was working to improve their system security, god knew the GCPD servers needed it.

He got updates on the rest of them too, Dick was still in Bludhaven, and unfortunately visits to the manor were few and far between, since he and Bruce were still at each other’s throats most of the time. Tim wondered about that, if _this_ Tim’s hospitalization had sparked their old animosity again, or if no Jason meant they never put their differences aside in the face of a greater tragedy. Tim couldn’t be sure.

The details on Bruce were vague and frustrating, Tim didn’t get past much more than that he’s kept up with ‘business’, which Tim was reasonably sure meant both Wayne business and Bat business. But other than that, the most telling thing was Alfred’s expression. That sort of worried-exasperated-concern look. Things were pretty bad then, Tim just couldn’t be certain how bad.

And then, when the full hour was up, Alfred stood to leave. And there was that small jolt of panic again. That desperate part of Tim that wanted to beg Alfred not to go. Tim tried to put a lid on it, but Alfred came around to hold one of Tim’s hands in his own, so maybe the fear showed on his face.

“I have to leave now, but I’ll be back next week. I promise.”

Tim sucked in a lungful of air as if it could brace him against what would come next. He gripped Alfred’s hand tightly, hoping against hope that he wouldn’t have to let go.

“When do you think I’ll be out of here, Alfred?” He said. More like pleaded. This wasn’t his Alfred, but god, his skin burned with the need for some kind of reassurance.

“Soon,” Alfred said, after a moment. “Quite soon, I hope.”

Tim closed his eyes, on the exhale, he couldn’t help the escaped and tired, “This is such bullshit.” It came out in a quick breath, but Alfred looked almost surprised. At the response, or the language, Tim wasn’t sure.

“This is how it has to be, for now.” Alfred found a reply, “ They have to be sure you won’t harm yourself again, then I’m sure you can come home.”

Tim’s next breath came shallower, defeat weighing heavy on his ribs, and his grip loosened slightly on Alfred’s weathered hand. But then,

“I haven’t harmed myself.” Too quiet for Alfred to hear, almost to himself. Again, “I haven’t. I haven’t harmed myself.”

“Master Tim-“

“No, no Alfred.” Tim’s words came quickly, like Alfred might walk out the door if he didn’t get them out fast enough. “I have proof, Alfred, I have proof. I haven’t hurt myself, I promise. You can check.”

A pause.

“Scars don’t just disappear, right?” Tim pressed, “So you can check and see. I’m not supposed to be here. I haven’t – I haven’t.”

Not, of course, that he hadn’t thought about it. But Tim had always kept himself busy enough that he’d never had the time to go through with it. His hands were never idle, Tim had thought of them as something that might turn against him someday, but were fine as long as he had some outside problem to turn them against first.

It had just seemed like a big step, was all. Doing it. Like it would _say_ something about him.

“C’mon, Alfred, please.”

Alfred glanced to the doorway, where Dr. Grock stood as supervision. Then both of them looked to him with such pity he wanted to shrivel up and disappear. But if he could just get Alfred to do this _one thing_-

“Indulging delusions isn’t going to help.” Dr. Grock said to Alfred in a quiet, cautionary sort of voice.

Alfred was impassive for another few moments. Tim knew if Alfred didn’t do something here, Tim would probably do something drastic himself. And he’d possibly be forced to sleep flat on his back again.

“Alfred,” He begged.

He didn’t hear the first half of Alfred’s response, the blood rushing in his ears was too loud, but,

“- might get him to see reason.”

And he held his breath as Alfred gingerly held the hem of Tim’s shirt, looking pained, and lifted it.

It was quiet as Alfred stared, and Tim breathed a sigh of relief. There was nothing on his torso but scars from the job, and Alfred would understand that, he would know what those looked like, and he would know the difference between what was self-inflicted and what was a bad run-in with Anarky.

“See?” Tim said, a little giddily, “I’m right. I know I’m right.”

Alfred didn’t say anything.

“Alfred?”

A gentle hand traced a line along his lower abdomen, in the rough shape of a C. Tim’s splenectomy scar, he belatedly realized. It was kind of hard not to notice, what with it carving an angry, jagged line through his skin. But he didn’t know what the big deal was about-

“How could they do this to you?” Alfred sounded horrified.

Oh fuck, abort mission. Abort abort-

Alfred surged upwards, looking angrier than Tim had ever seen him, “_What have you done to him!?_”

Dr. Grock looked equally as horrified, standing in the doorway. With good reason, Tim thought, because to her knowledge Other Tim probably still had all his internal organs intact.

“I didn’t-!” She started, but Alfred was on her in a moment.

“Tell me now why my grandson looks as if he’s been cut open with a rusted knife and stitched back together again!”

“I didn’t know – I didn’t know, I _swear_.” Dr. Grock had wide eyes fixed on where Tim’s shirt was still rucked up, where the bottom half of the scar showed through.

“Then _who_!?” Tim had never seen such murderous rage contorting Alfred’s features like that. It froze him in place, he didn’t know what to do.

“I don’t know,” Dr. Grock admitted, “I don’t know – something like this is-“

“Tim, get out of the chair.” Alfred demanded.

Tim stood, and Alfred’s arm was around his shoulders in a heartbeat. Which was nice and comforting and did nothing to combat the sick feeling in the pit of Tim’s stomach when he met Dr. Grock’s wide eyes.

“We’re returning home. Now.” Alfred said.

“Wait-“ Dr. Grock began.

“Unless you want the charges pressed against you to be greater than they already are, I suggest you let us leave.” Alfred’s tone was ice cold.

And Tim, at last, was able to stumble away, free. One of Alfred’s hands on his shoulder, the other on his arm, keeping him up.

They didn’t even stop to get Tim shoes.

It was raining outside. Good old Gotham.

And even though it wasn’t _his_ Gotham, Tim still felt that familiar lightness that came with coming home. The water quickly soaked through his papery hospital clothes, the white shirt and pants that he’d worn for the past week. The wet pavement like ice on his bare feet. And still he was buoyant with relief.

He was out.

He was _out_.

Alfred, his step not wavering for a second, marched Tim down the steps, across the path and past the looming iron gates of Arkham Asylum. Tim was sure that Alfred would’ve brought an umbrella in weather like this, but he wasn’t about to suggest they go back for it. Alfred looked like a man with a body count who wasn’t afraid to add to it.

They slowed to a stop outside of the gates, both absolutely soaked but Alfred somehow making it look dignified and stoic while Tim was pretty sure he looked like a drowned rat. Alfred turned to face him, expression still stony and cold and unlike any Alfred Tim had ever seen before. Seeming to assess Tim’s situation, Alfred removed his own suit jacket and placed it deftly over Tim. He smoothed out the shoulders, as if Tim were getting ready for a gala instead of standing in hospital clothes in the rain.

“Right.” Alfred said, clearing his throat. “There you are then.”

Like carved marble, the man’s face.

“Alfred…” Tim started, and at the sound of his voice, Alfred just… crumpled.

His expression twisted into something wretched and despairing, and Tim found himself in Alfred’s arms. And even though the rain was cold and the pavement was colder and his fingers felt like ice, the embrace was warm. And as far as hugs went, it was one of the best Tim had ever received.

But he knew it wasn’t meant for him.

“I’m sorry, my boy.” Alfred said in a low and broken voice, and Tim wasn’t sure how to deal with watching Alfred pull the most extreme emotional 180 he’d ever been witness to. “I should never have left you in that place, with those people.”

“It’s okay, Al.” Tim said instinctively. If anything, Alfred held him tighter.

“We thought it was best.” He said, “No one knew how to help you.”

Before Tim could respond with ‘it’s fine’ or some other variation thereof, Alfred pulled away.

“But that’s no excuse,” Alfred said softly, “Oh, my boy.” And a hand rested on Tim’s face, Alfred seeming to study every inch of it. “Nothing will ever make up for what I’ve done to you.”

And Tim knew that this apology wasn’t for him, but it made him feel warm and carved open and _seen_. In a way that he hadn’t been for a very long time.

The drive home was quiet, but nice. Alfred turned the fan on, and directed it so the warm air blasted directly in Tim’s face, which Tim appreciated, already starting to shiver from the rain. From his occasional glances at Alfred in the driver’s seat, Tim watched him go from anger to relief to utter despair and then back to something more hopeful again.

And then they were pulling up to the manor.

It wasn’t Tim’s manor, and Tim had been avoiding his own Wayne Manor for months, because talking with Bruce was always painful, talking with Dick was always awkward, and encounters with Damian were something Tim wanted to minimize as much as possible, and yet.

It really did feel like he hadn’t seen the place in years.

Alfred parked in the garage, and got out to open Tim’s door before he could even reach for the handle. Tim allowed himself to be helped out of the car, even though it wasn’t really necessary, he was still grateful. He had no idea how tired he was until he tried to stand.

“What’s going to happen to Dr. Grock?” Tim asked, and regretted it immediately with the way Alfred’s expression soured. “She’s not –“ And Tim wanted to explain everything, but his mind was too tired to string the words together. It would take more energy than Tim had to explain why and how his spleen was even removed in the first place. Instead he settled for, “She’s a good person.”

Alfred cleared his throat, “I’ll take care of that, Master Tim, not to worry. You’ll never be going back there again, not so long as I’m alive.”

“She didn’t do anything to me, Alfred.”

“Then she’ll have nothing to worry about.” And he was telling the truth, although Tim could tell he was still angry.

Tim smiled tiredly, and Alfred searched Tim’s face, as if looking for something sinister there. But, finding nothing in his smile, returned it and turned to lead Tim through the manor, keeping one hand on his arm.

The place was… quiet. Dark. Which was odd. Every time Tim had been to his own universe’s manor in recent years, the house was awash with noise. Mostly shouting and running and the occasional distant shatter of some precious heirloom. It was never this quiet. It put Tim on edge.

They had almost passed the grandfather clock when there was a familiar click, and the hidden door was swinging open.

“-trust me, Bruce, that guy is a joke! He’s got a cork-board of red string on his wall! What kind of self-respecting villain has one of those?”

And Batman and Batgirl emerged from the cave.

Well – Bruce and Barbara, really. Both dressed in civilian clothing.

Tim froze, and Alfred’s grip on his shoulder tightened just a fraction.

Bruce just stared.

Barbara let out an audible gasp, and Tim caught the exact moment she realized who he was. Her eyes widened, mouth opened, and like someone just punched her in the gut, forced out a barely-there, “Timmy?”

In an instant, she was across the room and he was in her arms.

_Two hugs today,_ Tim thought, breath leaving his lungs as Barbara squeezed far too tight, _that’s probably a record._

For some reason, even the knowledge of being in a different universe still didn’t prepare him to see Barbara moving with her legs instead of a wheelchair. It was disorienting, like he was in a dream and the details were just off enough to be odd.

She pulled away for just a moment to look at his face, searching. Then, she glanced at Alfred in question. Alfred shook his head just slightly in response, a clear indicator he’d be telling her everything later, when Tim wasn’t in the room. Tim tried not to feel offended by that.

Instead, Barbara hugged him again, and Tim brought his arms up to hug her back, a part of him baffled that he didn’t have to lean down to do so.

“Hi Babs.” He said, because what else was there to say, really.

It startled a laugh out of Barbara, eyes shiny with emotion. “Hi, Tim.” She said, “Welcome back.” She took a breath, still seeming like she didn’t quite believe he was in front of her.

Then she turned back, “Bruce, come-“ but cut herself off.

Bruce had already disappeared down the hall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Out of Arkham babeyy
> 
> I have a feeling this fic is going to be so much longer than I planned aaa. Hopefully yall enjoy this chapter even though its more or less 8000 words of philosophical rambling (and Tim doing his best not to get too introspective. And failing.)
> 
> (Can you tell I’m salty that Batman and co. just assumed Tim was dead when he got kidnapped by Dr. Oz? This aint their first rodeo, a bloodstained bo staff means nothing.
> 
> No body no death certificate is what I always say.)
> 
> Next chapter: the Batfamily all meet the new Tim, and not everybody is sure how to feel about him. Also nobody knows where their own Tim is.


	6. New Tim

**Tim**

Tim–

~

**Cass**

New Tim didn’t look very different.

Cass squinted at his sleeping form, clocking everything she could. His hair was a little greasier – not washed with the expensive shampoo that their Tim used, but the same length and color. His face was the same, though his body was scrawnier, more awkward looking. He might’ve even been a half an inch shorter, but Cass wasn’t sure when he was lying down.

Bruce had been in the armchair beside his bed, possibly sleeping, possibly watching over him. She couldn’t be certain, since the chair was empty now. He’d probably heard them all coming up the stairs and made himself scarce. She could tell by the indents still in the cushions, even though he’d no doubt appear behind her in a minute or two to scold them for watching New Tim sleep, as if he hadn’t been doing the same.

She listened to Steph and Dick’s whispers beside her.

“The twitching is weird, right?” Steph was asking.

The muscle spasms were few and far between, and barely noticeable, but still present. Cass was pretty sure they were from nightmares.

“Bad dreams, maybe?” Dick suggested, on the same track as Cass.

Bruce’s baritone cut through their hushed conversation, “I thought I told you all not to do anything stupid.”

The three of them couldn’t have been more conspicuous, lurking in Tim’s open doorway, but Bruce glared as if they’d been caught spying. Cass scrunched her nose at him, mocking his expression, and he softened a little.

“We were just dropping in to say hi to Other Tim,” Steph said, sort of accusatory in that way she got around Bruce, “Can’t see how that’s very stupid.”

“It is.” Bruce said, “I told you. He doesn’t know he’s not in his own universe, and we don’t know enough about _him_ to know he’s trustworthy. You should all leave until we get this situation sorted out.” His words were logical but Cass saw the tension in his stance. The dash of protectiveness and caring and fear.

Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be Bruce Wayne if he could ignore a kid in need.

Cass slipped into Tim’s bedroom while they continued talking.

“Maybe he knows something about where _our_ Tim went,” Dick was reasoning, Cass looked down over New Tim’s sleeping form. “None of us were able to find him anywhere.”

“And he’s not answering his phone.” Steph said, “And like, fair, yeah he sometimes does that but he wouldn’t ignore a call this long unless he was in a situation.”

“Or if he’s lost his phone.” Dick said.

“Yeah that’s happened a couple times.” Steph admitted.

The blankets were a mess, tossed haphazardly and bunched around New Tim’s legs like he was kicking in his sleep. He was wearing their Tim’s work slacks, which was sort of odd, and a t-shirt pilfered from their Tim’s closet. Cass wondered if maybe it was something familiar, maybe New Tim had the same shirt in his own universe.

The shirt had rucked up during sleep, and Cass could see silvery lines of scarring spider-webbed across the jut of his hips and the flat of his stomach. She wondered who gave them to him.

Cass glanced back at the group in the doorway,

“None of you will tell him anything until we have more information,” Bruce was saying, “Is that clear?”

Steph’s stance was annoyed, Dick’s defiant. “What’s so wrong with him that we can’t tell him anything?” Dick was saying, “How does he not already _know_?”

Bruce glanced into the room, betraying his worry, “All we know,” he said carefully, quietly, Cass could barely hear, “Is that something bad happened between this Tim and the Joker.” Steph rolled her eyes at this, clearly unconvinced.

“And this Tim was put in Arkham for it.”

Cass felt herself tense.

Dick let out a quiet breath, “Okay, yeah that’s a new one.”

Cass’ gaze pulled back to New Tim, wondering what could’ve happened to him.

His eyes were open.

She stepped back quickly in shock, but he wasn’t paying attention to her. Eyes fixed on Bruce in the doorway, expression unreadable. No one else had noticed he was awake yet. And any similarities between their Tim and this Tim fell away when Cass saw-

There was something terrifying about how blank he was. It wasn’t the same as looking at a corpse, he was still breathing, his heart still beating. But his body told her nothing at all. No tension, no movement. He was still in the room, yes. Still lying in bed, yes. But something instinctive and insistent inside of Cass told her that wherever this Tim, New Tim, _fake _Tim was, he wasn’t here. Lights on, nobody home.

She caught the moment that Bruce and Tim locked eyes, and quick as a blink, Fake Tim came to life. He was up and out of the bed then, moving to greet everyone with a smile that was just a bit too wide.

Cass couldn’t hear what they were saying, noise falling away from her as she tracked the four of them with her eyes.

Fake Tim recognized Dick, but not Steph. He stood closer to Bruce than Real Tim would’ve, a hand moving like he wanted to hang on to the hem of Bruce’s sweater. But everything else about him was gone. There was no emotion in his movements, only intent.

Meanwhile Dick and Steph held the cautiousness that all Bats did, but they were still open to Tim. Still wanting to be accepting. There was excitement in sway of Steph’s stance, in the twitch of Dick’s smile. Bruce broadcast a protectiveness over all of them, the tension still in his shoulders, watching Fake Tim with a careful eye that was not nearly as suspicious as he probably wanted it to be.

Fake Tim saw Cass at some point, and waved with that smile of his that was just a little too much. The unnerving presence of him made Cass uneasy. But she approached anyway.

Cass could tell when people’s movements were performative, they were the sort of thing that was meant to cover up something else. Real Tim did that a lot, a lot of hiding, or over exaggerating in an attempt at ironic sincerity. But there was always something to see underneath.

Fake Tim had nothing underneath.

The _wrongness_ of it had Cass continue walking out of the room, brushing past Fake Tim with only a flat, “Hi.” Before leaving down the hall, wary.

~

**Tim**

He –

~

**Jason**

Jason had thought, briefly, about preparing himself for whatever new shit was happening at the manor. Someone was always dead or in peril or somehow flying off the handle. If someone wasn’t angry at Bruce then Bruce was probably dying, and if Bruce wasn’t angry at someone Jason would have to check the skies because there would definitely be pigs with wings up there.

At this point, Jason had stopped giving a shit. He was here for one reason and one reason only: to pick up the duffle of guns he kept stashed in his old room, and possibly to annoy Bruce until that vein started showing itself on his forehead. It would make Jason feel a little better about his newest safe house getting compromised.

Keeping extra weapons in his old room at the manor was basically foolproof, since Bruce never went in there. The only person that did was Alfred, and even if he’d found them, he wouldn’t tell on Jason. Probably.

Down the hall, the grandfather clock door to the cave was ajar. Cass sat next to it, leaning against the wallpaper, frowning and staring at him, but probably not frowning _at_ him. There was a distinction.

“What’s the new crisis?” Jason said as he passed by.

“Fake Tim.” Cass said.

“What?”

“Fake Tim.” Cass repeated, and stood, walking in the opposite direction, done eavesdropping.

After a moment of consideration, Jason descended the cave stairs.

“If anyone died,” Jason announced by way of greeting, “It’s not my fault.”

Bruce stood in the center of the cave, having just been talking with Tim. The kid looked like shit, more than usual at least, it didn’t help that he was barefoot and wearing clothes that dwarfed his reedy frame. It made him look scrawnier than usual.

“Hey Bruce, kill any good clowns recently?” Jason waved in ironic good-nature to Dick and Damian, lurking by the exercise equipment.

Bruce said, “Jason.” In that semi-surprised, semi-grateful, semi-suspicious way that just loved to grate on every last one of Jason’s nerves.

But before Jason could say something appropriately irritating, Tim had bounded up to Jason with a frankly disturbing level of excitement.

“Oh! So _you’re_ the green underpants kid.” Tim opened, like that kind of sentence made any sense at all. He looked Jason up and down skeptically, “You look older than me.”

Jason scowled, “I _am_ older than you, shrimp.” He looked to Bruce, about to say something when Tim stepped in front of him, unbothered in the face of Jason’s glare.

“You got some interesting fashion choices,” Tim observed.

“Blame Dickface for that disaster,” Jason dismissed, “The pixie boots were a Grayson original.”

“Yeah right,” Tim scoffed, “Dick had the green tights and black boots, stop lying.”

“That was _you_, Replacement.” Jason steered Tim out of his way, “And quit talking like that, Richie Rich, or I’ll smack the shit out of you.”

“Talking like what?”

“Tim.” Bruce intoned from where he had moved to working at the computer, not even looking up. Tim reacted immediately though, scrambling to Bruce’s side like an eager puppy.

_Jesus,_ Jason thought. He knew Tim was a kiss-ass but he usually wasn’t so shameless about it.

“He’s not Tim.” Dick said in a low voice, having come up beside Jason. He spoke quietly enough that Tim and Bruce wouldn’t hear. “Well, he is, but-“

“What?”

Bruce stood from his seat at the computer, stalking over to some evidence table. Tim followed behind like a lost duckling. Damian, from his perch by the workout equipment, glared at them.

“Jason, this Tim is… he’s from a different universe. He’s not our Tim.”

“What the fuck?”

“Weren’t you listening to the Bat-nouncement on the comms?”

“Fuck no. Bruce started talking so I stopped listening and switched channels.” Jason jerked his head at the new Tim, “So what the fuck is this, then? Street-Tim? Or is he just an asshole?”

Dick frowned, “No idea, he didn’t use that accent until you came in.”

Jason rolled his eyes and went to call street-Tim over-

“Don’t tell him he’s from a different universe.” Dick said quickly, and at Jason’s look he shrugged, clearly pissed but still relaying Bruce’s orders. “Look, this Tim was in Arkham… for _some_ reason, before he came here. Bruce thinks it’s likely he won’t take being in the wrong universe well, now that he’s out.”

Dick was doing that thing again, speaking for Bruce and making it clear he didn’t agree. That thing where he thought Bruce was full of shit but would never say so in front of other people, having his back in a crowd but arguing behind closed doors. Dick really was Bruce’s best partner, Jason thought bitterly, even years after the fact he would still act like the perfect sidekick.

Dick glanced at Jason out of the corner of his eye, and something in Jason’s expression made him sigh, “Would _you_ be cooperative with Bruce if you knew he was trying to send you back to Arkham?”

“Who says he has to go back to Arkham?” Jason said flatly.

“Well he has to go back to his own universe,” Dick said, “And unless his being in Arkham was some huge mistake, it’s probably where he’ll end up again.”

Jason looked over at Tim, who cut himself off from chatting with Bruce to look back. After a moment, Tim grinned, looked back to Bruce, and Jason heard a bit of, “You sure needed a lot more folks to pick up the slack after I left, huh B?”

“He doesn’t look crazy to me.” Jason said.

“Yeah, well. If you ask me, killing the Joker is the most excusable murder out there. But, it’s still murder.”

Jason paused, “He killed the Joker?”

Dick held up a hand, “Allegedly.” He said, “He allegedly killed the Joker. Once again: Arkham. We’re not sure how much of what he says is true.”

“Well fuck,” Jason said, “They should’ve given him an award.”

~

**Tim**

Tim didn’t-

~

**Barbara**

Barbara had made the executive decision to watch this newcomer from a distance.

It wasn’t just that surveillance was her strong suit, or that monitoring other people had become second nature at this point. Or that she hadn’t showered in a few days and wasn’t keen on interacting with people face to face.

It was mostly so that somebody could keep hold of some objectivity in this whole situation.

She was developing a profile for this version of Tim, in the moments when she could, since other projects kept flagging her attention. And sparse as it was, it was fairly telling.

His speaking patterns and accent had flipped as soon as he started talking to Jason, but his familiarity and comfort in that voice told her that Tim wasn’t mimicking – or at least not _only_ mimicking Jason. He’d more than likely grown up in the same area.

She watched closer during the moments that he was alone, people showed different sides of themselves when they thought no one was watching. But there was nothing obvious of note, except he was a little more subdued.

Barbara would have to get Cass to look over the footage later, see if she could pick out anything Barbara didn’t.

She went to the Wayne security footage, scrubbing back through the timeline for the umpteenth time. It was, as far as she could find, this Other Tim’s first appearance. Tim – their own Tim – had been speaking on the phone. He’d entered the lab, simultaneously (frustratingly) out of view of any cameras, and exactly one hour and twenty six minutes later, he’d burst out of the lab again, stumbling and panicked. Same clothes, but a different Tim.

Clearly something had happened in those eighty-six minutes. The tricky part was figuring out what it was.

She’d compiled a list of the projects being developed in that lab specifically, and had gone through each one methodically to narrow down any kind of technology that could’ve done something like this.

Of course, she mused, only a little cynically, if this was some kind of remote attack, it could’ve had nothing to do with Tim’s whereabouts, or even what he’d been doing at the time. Or if whatever had gone wrong had done so at the other end of the line, so to speak. In the other universe.

Still though, she had a short list of research projects and a lot of pages of multiverse theory to get through. She’d put the teleportation prototype at the top of the likely suspects. The amount of reading she’d have to do to wrap her brain around the core concepts, and then the math to figure out whether multiverse teleportation was even _viable_ with that kind of machine… it wasn’t going to be fun.

She kept one ear on the security camera’s in the cave though, just to keep an eye on things. Which was why she knew Bruce was calling before the first ring.

“Barbara.” He said instead of a greeting.

“No solid leads yet,” She said, “Although I think the possibility of a switch is very likely.”

Bruce was quiet on the phone, but Barbara watched through her computer screen as he rubbed at the bridge of his nose. In the background of the feed, Tim had taken to following Dick through his workout routine, although he was talking with Jason the whole time. Damian had left earlier, in a bit of a huff.

Barbara hoped it was because he was being a little more mature about dealing with his feelings, instead of plotting for some kind of retaliation.

“A switch.” Bruce repeated tiredly.

Tim laughed loud enough that both the security mics and the mic on Bruce’s phone picked it up. Barbara held back a small wince when it got a little cackle-y. Too familiar.

“Whereabouts was this Alternate Tim before he appeared here?” She asked instead, “If they did switch, then that’s probably where our Tim is.”

She saw Bruce’s jaw tense. He didn’t answer for a long moment, then, “Wherever he is,” Bruce said finally, “He can take care of himself.”

Barbara sighed, “You know I’ll find out one way or another, right? Being vague so I won’t worry has never and _will_ never work.”

“I know.” Bruce said.

Barbara waited, just to see if he might actually tell her for once, and when he didn’t decided to drop it. “I also got the log records you wanted from the docks.” She said, and they continued from there.

Talking business with Bruce was easy, and they spoke and worked in silence at different intervals. Eventually Jason left, probably to grab something from his “secret” stash spot in his old room. Then Bruce glanced up from the computer and noticed for the first time that Tim was gone.

“He’s still in the manor.” Barbara informed him.

“I know.” Bruce said, “The tracker in his watch would’ve alerted me if he left the grounds.”

Barbara rolled her eyes. “Right, of course.” Classic. “You could’ve just told him not to leave.”

“I did,” Bruce said, “He agreed. Without question.” And despite his flat tone, Bruce was clearly baffled by this. It had been a while since any of his kids went along with orders without a fight. “It’s just a precaution. Where is he?”

“Upstairs. But Jason’s found him, don’t worry.”

~

**Tim**

Something was wrong -

~

**Jason**

The second time Jason saw Tim – the other Tim, street-Tim – the kid was rifling through a purse in the shoe closet.

Jason hadn’t even looked in the shoe closet for years. Respect for Alfred meant he didn’t wear his boots on the carpet, unless it was a real emergency, but it was still Bruce’s house, so Jason kicked them off haphazardly by the door. Plus, it was fun to watch Bruce get that divot between his brows as his emotions warred between disdain for the sloppiness, and happiness that Jason still treated the manor like he was a resident instead of a guest.

But there was a scuffle behind the door as Jason walked by, and he hadn’t spent the last decade honing his paranoia into a well-oiled machine to just walk away. He put a hand on the gun under his jacket, and used the other to wrench the door open quickly.

The kid was crouched on top of the shoes like a little weasel, expensive jackets draping over his shoulders and a garishly bejeweled purse in his hands. He looked up, startled, but relaxed when he saw it was only Jason. Weird to see Tim relax after seeing him.

Jason calmed his heartrate and said, “That’s definitely not yours.”

Tim had gone back to rifling through the purse, absently stuffing his pockets with the bits of jewelry he found. “What are you a narc?” He said, with no small amount of sass, “Get off my back.”

Jason couldn’t believe _he_ was the one being called a narc. Out of every do-gooder in this family. He debated being offended and said, “Yeah yeah, put it back you little shit.”

“It’s Selina’s anyway, she won’t mind.” Tim said, making no move to return anything. “She got it all off of other people.”

“Uh huh.” Jason intoned, and reached into the closet, grabbing Tim by the scruff of his hoodie and dragging him out into the open. He was a lot lighter than their Tim, Jason noticed, which was really saying something. He’d be surprised if this one was over 120 pounds. He was sulky, but didn’t fight as Jason grabbed a handful of necklaces and bracelets out of his hoodie pocket, dropped them back into the purse, deemed it a deed well-done, despite half the items still being missing, and tossed the purse back in the closet, closing the door.

“What part of ‘stay out of trouble’ was hard to understand?” Jason said, turning towards… and, the kid was gone. Of course. Giving him free range of the manor was definitely a mistake.

The next time Jason saw Tim, he was sitting on the floor of the lounge, back resting against one of the couches. He was inspecting his face in the mirror of a compact he held, clearly not paying any attention to the movie playing or Dick’s commentary from the couch.

“He actually did like ninety percent of all his own stunts for this movie,” Dick was saying, gesturing at the television, “His insurance must be _wild_.”

Tim had taken out a tube of lipstick, uncapping it with his teeth and then dropping the cap to the floor, not breaking eye contact with his own reflection.

“Not sure that’s your color, baby bird.” Jason said, leaning against the back of the couch. Dick seemed to only just notice what Tim was doing.

“Where’d you get that, kiddo?” Dick asked.

“Selina.” Tim answered absently. Jason scoffed, even though it was technically true.

“What?” Dick looked at Jason, but he only shrugged.

“I ain’t a narc.” Jason said. Tim muffled a laugh.

The movie kept playing, “Oh shit, this is where the actor literally broke a finger.” Dick said around a mouthful of popcorn. Jason didn’t recognize this movie, but then he didn’t really watch movies, but he had to admit the fight scenes were cool. “That’s why his left hand’s out of frame for half the runtime.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jason saw Tim attempting to apply the lipstick. It was sort of adorable, the way he acted. Like their Tim, but less uptight, less worried, less like he had something to prove. It might’ve been a side effect of the trauma but hey, who was Jason to judge?

Tim fucked up the top lip a little, the color smearing outside the lines of his mouth. Jason was right about the color. It was too red for him, washed his whole face out. Tim didn’t seem to mind this though, and swiped the red across his bottom lip, then reached the corner of his mouth, but instead of stopping there he continued the trajectory, curving a harsh red line up and over his cheek, treating it more like face paint than makeup. And he tilted his head to start on the other side, and watching his own face in the compact mirror, started to smile too big and too wide and too familiar and Jason moved before he had the chance to think.

The compact was smacked out of Tim’s hands and shattered on the thin carpet, littering tiny sharp pieces over the rug. Jason was dimly aware that he’d grabbed the front of Tim’s shirt and lifted him into the air, but wasn’t sure if it was out of anger or concern for Tim’s bare feet so near glass.

“Jason!” Dick exclaimed as Jason wrestled the lipstick out of Tim’s hand, smearing red on both their fingers. Then Dick noticed the paint on Tim’s face and blanched.

“That’s mine!” Tim shouted, reaching for it with one hand while trying to loosen Jason’s grip on him with the other. “I got it fair and square!”

Jason should’ve just sat the kid down and told him. He should’ve sat him down and said. _Tim,_ he should’ve said, _why the fuck would you do that. Why the fuck would you try and look like him?_ But Jason was too angry to think, his blood singing in his ears and his fist clenched so tightly around Tim’s shirt he could’ve ripped holes in it.

“Life _isn’t_ fair!” Jason shouted back at him. He should’ve told the kid why it was wrong. He should’ve, but, “You especially should know that by now!”

“Get your own!” Tim snapped, still fixated on the stolen lipstick and not on why Jason had taken it. Jason was vaguely aware that Damian had shown up, watching the exchange from the doorway.

“What the hell is _wrong_ with you!?” Jason threw the lipstick so hard it hit the wall with a thud. A smudge like a red fingerprint marked the wallpaper.

Tim struggled in Jason’s grip, kicking out against his legs, “Get off me!”

Jason shoved Tim onto the couch to stop himself from smacking the shit out of him. “Do _not_ do that again!” Jason ordered, “Hear me? You _never _pull that shit again!”

Tim and his painted half-smile glared up at Jason from the couch, “’Cause _you’ve_ never stolen a thing in your life, huh!?” Christ, he thought Jason was mad about the stealing.

“Get the fuck out of here.” Jason snarled. He couldn’t deal with this shit. Not now. Not when he was so close to seeing green. When Tim didn’t move he snatched the kid’s arm, pulled him up off the couch, and practically tossed him at the door. “Are you deaf!? Get the fuck out!” Tim stumbled on the hardwood.

Jason turned away, wanting very bad to rip something apart but some god-given part of himself stopping it from being Tim. He couldn’t even look at the kid, so glared at Dick, who seemed torn between shock and his own anger.

“What the _fuck_, Jason?” Dick said as Jason heard footsteps retreat out the door.

“_Me_ what the fuck?” Jason demanded, “_Him_ what the fuck, are you kidding me? Did you not see what he did!?”

~

**Tim**

That other kid was standing –

~

**Damian**

Damian gave the whole dramatic scene the detached disdain it deserved.

The other Drake approached Damian’s doorway with stumbling determination, wiping at his mouth with quick motions, only succeeding in smearing red across the back of his hand. He didn’t notice Damian until he almost collided with him, but stepped back at the last moment.

Damian surveyed the other Drake, from his bare feet to his blank expression to his half-formed bid at carnival make up, and the vindication came slow but sure.

Whoever this was, it wasn’t Drake. And the fact that father had essentially allowed a complete stranger into their home was a massive oversight. They had the same name, same face, but this Drake was nothing like the original.

Damian would rather die than admit, but Drake’s singular asset was undoubtedly the sharpness of his mind. And this feral child with Drake’s face had utterly lost his.

Damian had no doubt the real Drake would be ashamed to see father and the rest doting over this imposter as if they were the same.

And at the very least, the real Drake knew his place: far away.

This one was obviously intent on taking Damian’s well-earned place at his father’s side, and the fact that he had in some respects _succeeded_ was an insult to the highest degree.

The shouting match between Todd and Grayson was quickly dissolving into Todd’s inevitable stormy departure, meanwhile Damian and Drake held a staring match of their own.

“I know what you’re doing.” Damian told him. Because he should know. And if he didn’t respect Damian’s superiority, then he would have to fear it.

Under the mess of red on his face, Drake frowned. “What?”

“Trying to worm your way back into Robin is useless,” Damian said, “And a pathetic bid, even for you.”

The frown turned into a glare, and Drake tried to pass through the doorway. Damian stepped in front of him, a few inches shorter, but much stronger.

“However much you pretend not to see it,” Damian said, “You _know_ you don’t belong here. And it’ll be a relief once father finds out how to send you back.”

The shove that Drake employed was amateur, and frankly embarrassing. Damian caught his wrists before the blow could land and twisted, sending Drake to the floor, pinning him easily. Drake screamed wordlessly in animalistic defiance, but couldn’t break Damian’s hold.

“Damian!” The order was so stern and angry that Damian relaxed his grip immediately. Drake, once free, put as much quick distance between them as possible, back hitting the hallway vanity and upending several antique tchotchkes on display.

Damian looked up to see Grayson approaching with a severe expression, Todd having retreated already.

Grayson, as a rule, didn’t loom, or intimidate. Not like Damian’s father did. But standing as he was – tense and no-nonsense, Damian felt something small inside himself begin to cower. But Grayson’s gaze passed over Damian to land on Drake, and Damian relaxed. This scene was familiar. Grayson always saw sense, knowing Damian was merely reacting to the threat (however pathetic).

“Tim, you okay?”

Damian turned to Grayson in surprise, but Grayson didn’t look at him.

Drake got to his feet, “I’m fine.” He said quietly. And after a beat, and a wary glance at Damian, he left down the hall, footsteps hurried.

And then Damian was faced with the full force of Grayson’s disappointment.

“_He_ pushed _me_.” Damian said, defensive. And it was alarmingly close to a childish _he started it_.

Grayson sighed, exasperated, which only fueled Damian’s indignation. “That’s not what matters here.” Grayson said, “You can’t treat him the same way you would our Tim.”

“He’s an abysmal representation of an already pitiful legacy, and we should all be glad to be rid of him.” Damian argued, “I should treat him like any imposter.”

“He’s not – “ Grayson cut himself off, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Until we can get him back to his own universe, he’s our responsibility. Which means you have to _lay off_, okay?”

Damian scowled, but that small part of him that called itself shame flared in his chest. Grayson was right, whatever position Drake was trying to carve for himself was merely temporary, and once the original returned, everything would go back to how it should be. Antagonizing the new one was a fruitless endeavor.

“I need you to be mature about this.” Grayson ordered, hands on his hips in what Todd called ‘Dick’s Mom Stance’.

Damian grit his teeth, “Fine.”

~

**Tim**

Jason didn’t come by the manor after that.

~

**Dick**

“Why did you do that, Tim?” Dick asked, feeling lost.

“Do what?” Tim didn’t look him in the eye, instead seeming perfectly content with shifting his counterpart’s old action figures around on the floor. He didn’t make them fight each other, exactly. Just moved them from one location to another, occasionally facing each other, sometimes not. His face was, thankfully, clean of any trace of makeup.

Dick took a breath, this might be difficult. “Why were you trying to look like the Joker?”

Tim didn’t answer, and instead moved some wizard figurine in front of Optimus Prime.

Dick tried again, “The Joker isn’t someone _anyone_ should want to look like, especially not you.” No response. “You shouldn’t want anything to do with him.”

Tim hummed a little. Dick wasn’t sure if he was listening.

“Tim?” He prompted.

“Not Joker.” Tim mumbled. He brought some kind of knight figurine closer to him, fiddling with the helmet, nervous.

“What?”

“I wasn’t trying to look like Joker,” Tim picked at a divot in the plastic, “I was just trying Jay-Jay on. It’s not a big deal.”

“You were…” Dick frowned, “Who’s Jay-Jay?”

“Me.” Tim said flatly. “Sometimes.”

“Okay…” Dick tried to follow along. “So, Jay-Jay is…?”

“Short for Junior. Like Joker Junior.” Tim picked harder at the divot, then paused. He looked to the door, as if checking to see if anyone was listening, then leaned closer to Dick. “He’s _crazy_.” Tim whispered. Then in a normal volume, “But I’d go crazy too, if I got electrocuted enough times.”

Dick furrowed his brows, “But you said Jay-Jay _was_ you.”

“Only sometimes, now.” Tim returned to his toys, “When I want to try him on.”

At Dick’s blank look, Tim sighed.

“Nobody is ever just one person all of the time.” Tim said, “There’s the _you_ right now, and the _you_ when you talk to dad, and the _you_ that talks to strangers, and the _you_ that fights crime. Only Nightwing has a separate name, and the rest are called Dick, but they’re all different.” He set the knight down and tilted it side to side so it was ‘walking’ across the carpet. “You all have loads of _you’s_. And I’ve got loads of _me’s_. Otherwise none of us would have a secret identity.”

“So, Jay-Jay is…” Dick said, “Like a persona.”

“Sure,” Tim set the knight behind the wizard. “Like Robin. Put on the mask and he’s there.”

Dick frowned, “But Tim,” he started, not sure how to say this delicately, “Jay-Jay’s not the one who… who was electrocuted.” Electrocuted. Jesus Christ. “He’s not a separate person. That was still you. The Joker did that to _you_.”

Tim was quiet for a second, his hands stilled. Dick worried he’d crossed a line somewhere, but then Tim spoke.

“Sure,” He said, words casual but tone hollow and very quiet. “But it’s not a big deal. It’s like… acting in a movie.”

Dick couldn’t help but match his volume, “How is it like a movie?”

Tim looked at Dick then, a too-wide smile coming too easily to his face.

“I do all my own stunts.”

He returned to the wizard. Dick didn’t know what to say to that.

Tim gave that smile again, and it was still too wide. Like he was trying to pull off something sincere and overshot just a smidge. His voice rose in pitch, “Riddle me this,” He said, in a very poor imitation of Nygma, and then back to his regular voice, “What is the way the clown ends?”

He didn’t wait for Dick’s reply before answering it himself,

“Two bangs and a whimper.”

Tim burst into a fit of laughter at that, too loud and too long for Dick to really believe it was genuine.

He deserved to know, Dick thought. He deserved to know he wasn’t where he belonged. Bruce wanted to figure out what they could on their own, explaining it as a precaution against Tim as a volatile third party they knew nothing about. But Dick was pretty sure it was some misguided protection scheme.

And besides, if Dick didn’t directly say anything, if this Tim just… figured it out on his own. Dick would be virtually blameless. Tim was smart, naturally curious, and this one probably was too. Underneath all the… weird, possibly manufactured, obliviousness.

He was probably their best bet at finding their own Tim, too.

“Do you remember when you put these up?” Dick asked, changing the subject and gesturing towards the posters lining the walls of the bedroom.

Tim inspected them with a performative sort of scrutiny. “I don’t remember a lot.” Tim said with a bashful sort of grin, shrugging. “But I probably like the music.”

“But do you even know this band?” Dick pressed. Pointing out the Depeche Mode poster, all four members looking moodily at the camera.

Tim glanced at Dick, confused. “Yeah?” He said.

“Name one of their albums.” Dick said, immediately feeling like one of those gatekeeping douchebags. But if he could just get Tim to _notice_. Notice the differences and discrepancies. Start to wonder _why_.

Tim shook his head, “I know them.” He insisted, in a sort of non-answer. He did a very good job of looking like he was thinking about it. “It’s – no, I know this, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”

Dick sighed, and glanced around the room, searching for something else he might use. Then he saw Tim’s old camera, resting like a dusty relic on his dresser, not getting a lot of use.

Dick took it down, “What about this?” He held it up for Tim to see.

“That’s a camera.” Tim said, raising an eyebrow.

“Do you know who it belongs to?”

Tim frowned, thinking. “You?” He guessed.

“No, Tim, this belongs to you.” Dick handed it over. Tim held it awkwardly, unsure of how to operate it. Then Dick amended, “Well, it kind of belongs to you. Anyway, you don’t remember it, right?”

“No, I remember.” Tim insisted, still holding it wrong. “I was just kidding, I know it’s mine.”

“Okay, then what did you use it for?”

“Taking pictures.”

“Pictures of _what _exactly?”

Tim frowned. Didn’t answer.

“Do you remember who gave it to you?”

Tim twisted the zoom lens back and forth absently, Dick hoped he wouldn’t break it. Then, Tim snapped his fingers in realization, nearly dropping the camera. “That’s a trick question.” Tim said triumphantly, “I stole it.”

This was going to take a lot more patience than Dick thought.

~

**Tim**

When he could, Tim followed Bruce.

Bruce didn’t ask hard questions, not like –

~

**Dick**

The Wayne company fundraiser was that weekend. Because nothing could ever go right, even once.

Tim was expected to make an appearance, and a short introductory speech before Bruce took the stage. But that was before he’d disappeared and left an unstable, traumatized version of himself in his place. His absence would be noticed, but hopefully not too noticed. Their cover was that Tim had come down with the flu, and that he, of course, most certainly most definitely wanted to be there, schmoozing and entertaining the shallow small-talkers, but Bruce had insisted he stay home and recover. Dick would be attending in Tim’s place, and although he knew next to nothing about the company, he could charm like nobody else. And he could distract from Tim’s absence.

It was routine, at this point. Dick remembered being more fond of gala’s as a kid. Because he could perform and smile and say all the right things to get people to say “oh, how adorable”. Adulthood meant he couldn’t spend all his time at the buffet table anymore though. Less performing, more being performed to. It was tiring, but Dick treated it like any other job. He went through the motions and kept one eye on the clock.

“-unfortunately my brother wasn’t able to make it tonight,” Dick was saying for the umpteenth time, but instead of the false sympathies and obligatory well-wishes, Mrs. Arlecchino frowned in confusion.

“Wasn’t able to make it?” She repeated, “I was speaking to the Drake boy not two minutes ago.”

“What?” Panic raced up Dick’s spine.

“Yes, of course. He knows so much about fine art, did you know?”

Dick wasn’t listening, instead hastily excusing himself to frantically scan the crowd. How the hell did that kid manage to show up? Then Dick spotted him, wearing one of Tim’s – _their_ Tim’s – suits, holding a glass of champagne and talking with a small group of amassed socialites. They all watched him like he was some kind of interesting street performer.

Dick spurred into motion, trying to get across the ballroom without actually running, dodging around various people trying to get his attention. Someone moved in front of him, cutting off his line of sight for a moment, and when Dick managed to swerve around them, Tim was gone. His panic rose a few degrees.

“Chill, dickface, he’s over there.” Came a voice to his right.

Dick turned to see Jason, holding an empty tray and dressed in a serving staff suit, pointing to where Tim had lead his enthralled onlookers to a nearby opulent painting.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Dick hissed, “Did you bring him?”

Jason scoffed, “Alfred called. Apparently Timmy wasn’t in the manor when he got back. Some alert went off. I figured he caught a ride in the trunk with you unobservant idiots.”

“I’m taking him back to the manor,” Dick said, moving towards Tim, only to be stopped by a hand on his elbow.

“You’re worrying over nothing,” Jason said, “Look at him, he’s a natural.”

Dick took a second glance. This Tim was playing the eccentric socialite alright, just like theirs did. The line of his shoulders was confident, and his smile was broad and fake and exactly the kind of thing a person of his wealth was supposed to have. Dick knew their Tim didn’t know anything about the paintings he seemed to be explaining to his surrounding crowd, and _this _Tim almost certainly didn’t either. But none of the wealthy people he was talking to knew anything about them either.

“It’s actually kind of creepy,” Jason continued, “The way he disappears like that.”

“He’s hard to keep track of.” Dick agreed, keeping his eyes on Tim.

“Not like that, idiot. I mean the way he disappears into his… characters.” Jason adjusted his suit jacket, making Dick suspect he was probably carrying. “Our Tim could do that too, obviously. But when he did it you could still tell there was something underneath, if you knew how to look. This kid’s just…”

“Empty.” Dick and Jason both jumped at the new voice to see Cass had somehow appeared.

“Christ, how did _you_ get here?” Dick asked.

“With Jason.” She responded, her eyes still tracking Tim. “This Tim is…” She paused, “Not real.”

Jason frowned, “What, like he’s insincere?”

“Yes,” Cass agreed. “He’s not true. Not… genuine.”

“None of us are genuine here, Cass.” Dick said, “It’s a gala, we’re all putting on an act. Jason is literally in disguise.”

Cass shook her head, “No, not like this.” She said, “Not like him.”

Dick looked at her in confusion, and although she wasn’t watching him, she still tried to explain.

“He puts on an act.” She said, “All the time. Never not acting. Always someone else.”

Dick looked back to Tim, where he’d apparently left his entourage to have a more private conversation with a couple. The three of them had identical polite smiles on their faces as they spoke. Tim was mirroring them.

“What, like even at the manor? With Bruce and Alfred?” Jason asked.

Cass nodded.

“He talked to me about personas, before.” Dick said, brow furrowed, “He talked about Robin, and the person that the Joker tried to make him into, like they were different people. He said he would ‘try them on’ sometimes.”

“So, what,” Jason scoffed, “You’re saying ‘Tim’ is a persona too?”

“Maybe,” Dick shrugged, “I mean, doesn’t he seem a little too… well-adjusted? For a kid who was tortured and then spent three years in a psychiatric hospital?”

Jason stared at Tim now too, eyes narrowed as if he was trying to find something. “Alright, so if he’s just acting, where’s the _real_ Tim?”

“I don’t know.” Cass said, seeming frustrated. “It’s like… he’s gone.”

She looked to Dick, jaw tense, “Empty.”

Across the ballroom, the couple Tim was speaking to excused themselves, and he turned to the person closest to him.

“Okay, I’m going to get him, and then you two are going to take him home.” Dick said, not waiting for their acknowledgement before walking away.

As he approached, he heard a snippet of what Tim was saying.

“Obviously you have to take the stocks into consideration, what with the state of today’s investors and all-“ Christ, he was just saying business buzzwords. The man he was speaking to obviously had no idea what he was talking about, nodding politely at key moments.

“Okay, Timmy,” Dick announced, deftly taking the champagne glass from Tim’s hand and putting it safely on a side table, “Sorry to interrupt,” He addressed the man, “But Bruce wanted to have a word with this one.” Dick clapped a hand on Tim’s shoulder, the man smiled and moved on.

As soon as he was out of earshot Dick turned to Tim, “You’re not supposed to be here.” Dick said, trying not to sound angry.

~

**Tim**

Tim had done something wrong. He wasn’t sure what, exactly. But he could see it in Dick’s face. Tim didn’t understand –

~

**Jason**

Neither of them said anything on the drive back to the manor, Tim had taken his shoes off for some fucking reason, tossing them into the backseat. Cass had adamantly refused to be in a car with “Fake Tim”, which of course left Jason as the shmuck who had to deal with him. Dick had given Jason a stern glare before they’d left, probably trying to communicate without words not to blow up at the kid again.

It was, however, a testament to how far Dick had come in trusting Jason that he’d let them go with _only_ a glare. Time heals all wounds and all that.

Jason pulled to a stop at a red light, the only car at the intersection. This part of downtown was quiet at night.

Tim shivered in the passenger seat, probably because he’d ditched his shoes. After a moment of consideration, Jason shrugged off the white serving jacket he’d stolen from the staff room and tossed it to the kid.

“Getting cold looking at you.” Jason grumbled in explanation.

Tim pulled the tailcoat over his shoulders, and Jason could see in his periphery how he fiddled with the wide lapels. Christ this light was taking forever to change. Jason could tell Tim was staring at him, watching the side of his face.

Jason thought about what Cass said. Wondered if maybe he was calculating how to act.

Or maybe he was just being creepy. It would make sense if all Tim’s were stalkers. Jason could almost respect how blatant this one was being about it. Almost.

“Sorry.” Tim said suddenly, looking and sounding perfectly contrite. Christ, Cass had gotten Jason paranoid about this whole acting thing.

The light turned green, and as Jason accelerated Tim spoke again.

“Sorry about the whole,” He gestured vaguely at his face, “Thing, from before. I didn’t know you were scared of clowns.”

Jason snorted, half in surprise and half in laughter. “Who told you that?”

“Dick.” Tim said, “He said you got hurt. Badly. And that you’re scared of clowns.”

Jason glanced over at Tim in the passenger seat.

It wasn’t so much that this Tim didn’t have all the pieces. Anyone with eyes and ears and a neuron or two could put together that they weren’t in the right universe. It couldn’t have been clearer that Jason had history with the Joker. But as far as Tim was concerned, the Joker was dead, had never interacted with Jason, and Jason just so happened to be scared of clowns as an unrelated anecdote.

Tim had all the pieces. He just wasn’t able to put them together. Or maybe he didn’t want to. He did what all Tim’s do and pulled all the relevant information he needed, observed all the important bits. He just didn’t touch them after that point. Didn’t connect the dots.

Was scared to.

“I’m sorry.” Tim said. “That dad couldn’t save both of us.”

“What?” Jason said.

“Dick told me what happened to you.” Tim explained, and seeing Jason’s grip tighten on the steering wheel, immediately backpedaled, “Not everything, just the cliff notes.”

Once he’d apparently determined that Jason wasn’t going to combust, Tim continued. “Bruce couldn’t get you out of the warehouse in time, but he got me out of Arkham. I just… it sucks he couldn’t save both of us. And I’m sorry.”

Jason thought about telling him the truth, right then and there. That this Tim’s Bruce hadn’t saved him from Arkham. And if Tim’s Bruce was anything like Jason’s Bruce, he never would have. Because _Bruce_ had this annoying little tendency to write his children off as lost causes once their problems got too murderous for him to solve.

Jason felt a wave of anger that this kid genuinely thought Bruce fucking Wayne was a savior in any capacity. Bruce fucking Wayne was just taking credit for some stupid universal mishap, and forcing everyone else to keep lying to this kid about it so he could feel like a real father for once, under the guise of ‘caution’.

Throwing caution to the wind, Jason said, “You know he didn’t, right?”

“What?”

“He didn’t save you. Either of us. Anybody.”

Jason expected to have to argue this. Expected Tim to feign confusion and then anger, and Jason expected to explain the whole thing and Tim would probably be upset about it but it was better than worshipping at the feet of Bruce fucking Wayne for thinking he actually gave a shit when he didn’t.

He didn’t expect Tim to sigh, and say in a quiet, defeated sort of voice, “I know.”

Jason heard the shake of Tim’s breath and glanced over quickly, Tim was twitching his leg nervously, rubbing at the lapel of the serving jacket in a quietly frantic pattern.

“Okay what the fuck is up with you.” Jason said, concerned but blunt.

“Do you ever,” Tim trailed off, staring at his hands instead of Jason, “Do you ever get scared of yourself? Of like, the things you did, but never thought you’d do. And because you did them once, you’re scared you might do them again?”

Jason felt the weight of an answer on his tongue. “Maybe.” He said. Far from the truth but still too close to be comfortable.

“I just,” Tim struggled to get the words out, “Things aren’t the same, after. People aren’t the same after they get hurt, y’know, _bad_. Even if they get saved. I’m different than I was. I know that.”

Jason didn’t want to have this conversation. Would’ve liked very much to rant about Bruce again. “I’m talking literally, Tim. He literally didn’t save you.”

Tim ignored him, “I’m different, but not in a good way.” He said, “Like something’s missing. Do you ever feel like that?”

Jason kept his eyes on the road.

“Some of me is still in that place. With that clown.” Tim’s voice was flat, “I can’t get out. Like he poisoned me, or like I’m diseased with him. I can feel it.”

“Shut up, Tim.” Jason said, quick and quiet.

Tim went silent, but only for a few blocks. When he spoke again it was barely above a whisper, and carried something apologetic. An attempt at an explanation. “Part of him is still in me.” Tim said, “And sometimes I can ignore it, but sometimes I can’t. And it gets to be too much. And if I leave it there, it’ll stay and grow and like… become me. So I have to get it out, outside of my brain. Like a release valve, or a cleanse, or something.”

Jason didn’t go to therapy at that moment, but he’d been around the proverbial block a couple of times. It hadn’t really worked out for him, or any of the psychologists he’d met, but that was more to do with his paranoia about Gotham doctors and their tendency towards villainy than anything they had actually done. But something he’d learned in therapy was that people needed safe spaces to work through their trauma. Places where they could remember and relive the situation, but keep their autonomy and control over when it started and stopped.

Tim probably felt safe in the manor, safe to work through whatever Joker had done to him. Unfortunately for both of them though, his trauma just happened to misalign with Jason’s. Severely.

“What does it feel like?” Jason found himself asking, “To remember.” And maybe it was an olive branch or a shoulder to cry on, or maybe Jason was desperate to feel a little less alone with his own thoughts and memories.

“Like I can’t breathe.” Tim’s voice lacked any inflection, but the passing streetlights reflected wide eyes. “Like I’m buried alive.”

Jason’s jaw was clenched so tight his teeth were in danger of cracking.

“And I just try to be anywhere but where I am. Outside myself. Someone else. Whatever I can manage.” Tim heaved a breath that sounded like the wind before a rainstorm, “I can’t stay in my own head, otherwise…”

“Otherwise what?”

“Otherwise bad stuff.”

The car had pulled up to the Wayne Manor driveway, stopped just beside the steps leading up to the doors. Neither of them made any move to get out of the car.

“There’s some bad stories out there, Jason.” Tim spoke as if he was making any sense, “The worst ones are the ones that are true.”

Jason stared out the windshield for a long moment, then turned the key, silencing the car engine.

“Put your shoes back on.” He said.

~

**Tim**

Jason was familiar. Sharp and raw and unable to stop caring so much. And poisoned, like Tim.

Tim wondered if poison was still poison if it was indivisible from the thing keeping you alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot second since I updated huh??
> 
> If the chapter seems fractured/disjointed That Is Intentional. It's kinda sorta from Tim's perspective, and that's just where he's at right now. Any Fibonacci fans in the house? Because I did a fun little word-count game with all the bits from Tim's POV. Note how the number of words amounts to the sum of the previous two instalments. (1,1,2,3,5,8,13 etc.) Get it? Cause he's SPIRALLING.
> 
> Anyway Mrs. Arlecchino is named after a character type from the Commedia Dell'arte, an Italian form of theatre that was big in the 16th to 18th centuries, it relied on stock characters wearing masks or costumes to designate who they were. That way the audience could be like, "Ah, that dude's wearing a tight fitting suit with a bunch of weird patches, that must be Arlecchino, the servant clown sometimes to two masters!" (bdg)
> 
> Also I'm gonna try to reply to comments more often because yall have no idea how fuckin PLEASED they make me and that is a CRIME, although if I can't reply to all of them just know that they all make me very happy and ily
> 
> Next time! Tim is STILL trying to convince people he's in the wrong universe, but at least he's not in an asylum


	7. Home Away From Home

It was weird that there was an oak tree where Tim’s parents' graves should’ve been.

The cemetery itself was quiet, absent of people, and there, in the plot of land that had been chosen as the Drake’s final resting place, was an oak tree.

But was it weird that Tim was almost relieved by it? He stared at a wayward leaf caught on an upraised root of the tree, flapping back and forth like a frantic flag.

He had no reason to be in this cemetery, for once. 

It had been a long time since that had been true.

Being back at the manor carried with it a strange semi-familiarity. Breakfast with Alfred, leagues better than the bland oatmeal Tim had been given the past two weeks. The old radio that Alfred insisted on keeping in the kitchen had been turned in static and nostalgia to the baseball game in Gotham stadium, Knights playing the Patriots. Tim had listened with half an ear to the commentators and watched Alfred move about the kitchen like it was the first time. 

Like he was thirteen again, staying the night in a guest room that was quickly becoming just Tim’s room. Dead tired after a long patrol but the call of bacon and eggs and sausage and toast forcing him to stumble his way into the kitchen.

He’d always liked mornings with Alfred. The kitchen warmed by the stove-top, tiles cool under his feet. Tim would say something about the game and Alfred would say something sarcastic about American sports and Tim would dive in to the meaningless banter, eager for conversation.

Mornings with Alfred had made Tim feel safe. At his own house, the kitchen had always felt cold. Dead, somehow. Tim never used half the expensive appliances, only really confident in his skills with the toaster and microwave. And he never ate there, taking his food to his room instead, where he could turn up his music to drown out the silence. 

But here, the room felt alive. Sleepy, sure. But there was a difference between sleepy and absent. Nothing mattered beyond the easy exchange and the crackle of bacon in the cast iron skillet. The rest of the manor was still asleep, and outside the window the city was waking up, and Tim was in the kitchen with Alfred.

It was like he’d stepped through a time machine, back – back to before. When Batman and Robin’s adventures were unpredictable and dark, yet they would still end with Tim waking up in a bed that wasn’t his – but still felt more familiar than the one in his own home – and Tim would descend the stairs to spend the morning with Alfred.

He caught a wisp of that same feeling, that feeling of safe and calm and familiarity, as Alfred set a plate down in front of him, heaped with eggs and hash browns and sausages. 

Dick was coming to visit for the weekend, Alfred told him.

This kind of thing hadn’t happened to Tim for a while.

Which was part of the reason he’d asked to go to the cemetery that afternoon. He needed the reminder that this wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Remind himself that no matter how familiar, no part of any of this was the same. Not the manor, not Alfred. And not mornings with Alfred.

Alfred himself had stayed at the base of the hill by the car as Tim made the trek up to the tree. Tim wasn’t sure what Alfred thought he was doing at this cemetery. Since, clearly, neither of his parents were buried here. But Tim got the feeling that Alfred would be remiss  _ not _ to grant whatever request Tim came up with, as long as it was harmless. 

Tim was definitely feeling a lot better now, having victoriously trashed his hospital bracelet after Alfred cut it off for him. He was wearing real clothes, real  _ shoes _ . But Alfred still spoke to him like he was made of glass.

Maybe he thought Tim was wanting to visit Bruce’s parents. They were buried here too.

The thought of Bruce gave him pause. Tim hadn’t seen any of him since that first night. And Tim wasn’t expecting to, but it still hurt. Just a little.

The trouble was, Tim felt like he understood Bruce, maybe more than anyone. Bruce wouldn’t want to see him – wouldn’t want to see his son the way everyone thought Tim was.

The guilt was surprising and irrational, but Tim felt it anyway. He’d done everything to make sure he wouldn’t become another Jason. But here he was, basically having taken Jason’s place. He’d never wanted to be a source of Bruce’s pain, and he’d tried not to be, and he’d succeeded – more or less – in his own universe. Hadn’t died, or gone rogue, or done anything to actively bring harm to Bruce.

But here he was anyway. In a place where some other version of him had failed that.

Tim exhaled, breath leaving him in a whisper. What was it about graveyards that made him so introspective?

He needed to focus on his next steps.

Sitting beneath the oak tree, Tim put his elbows on his knees and thought. He was out of Arkham, and that was one puzzle solved. But now it was on to the much larger and much more complicated puzzle of getting out of this universe entirely.

He needed to get into Wayne Enterprises. However slim, there was a chance that there was something similar somewhere in the R&D labs that he might be able to use or adjust or retrofit into something that could get him back where he belonged.

And like an annoying little gnat, the question hovered over him again.

_ Why do you want to go back? _

That didn’t matter. He should be trying to get back so that’s exactly what he’d do. Once the universes were corrected he could move on with his life. Go back to his apartment. Go back to avoiding his entire adopted family and most of his friends.

He very purposefully did not think about how nice that morning with Alfred had been.

Groaning in frustration, Tim pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and fell back into the grass with a dull thud. Dragging his palms down his face, Tim looked up through the gaps in his fingers to watch the gaps in the tree branches and seriously considered just staying here the rest of the day.

The hush of leaves swaying above him was comforting, the gentle rush of wind made him feel alive in a way that wasn’t too painful. It was nice, staring up at the sky through the leaves. It was moments like this when Tim felt like he could disappear. He closed his eyes, and did his best to just breathe.

Eventually, the hush of the grass was interrupted by the recognizable sound of footfalls. Starting quiet and getting louder and finally stopping near Tim, a few meters away. Tim opened his eyes but didn’t look over, staring steadfast at the tree from below.

Tim could tell it was Bruce, because he didn’t say anything. Tim kept his eyes up.

“My dad,” Tim asked finally, “Where’s he buried?”

The question was an invitation and a peace offering and a forgiveness all at once, and Tim felt rather than saw the tension in the air release, ever so slowly. He might regret it, but Bruce talking to him would still be better than Bruce avoiding him.

“In an unmarked grave,” Bruce responded, voice level but tight, “In a cemetery across the city. The police couldn’t identify the body, and –“ He stopped, then cleared his throat like that was the end of the sentence.

Tim knew his meaning anyway. The only person who could’ve identified the body would’ve been Tim, and Bruce didn’t want Tim to have to see his dad like that.

“Dr. Grock said he’s still missing, officially.” Tim said, not really sure why he did. Maybe he just wanted Bruce to say something in response. “After a bad deal with Two-Face.”

“Every deal with Two-Face is a bad one.”

Tim huffed a laugh at that. He finally turned his head from the branches above, and looked at Bruce.

He was the same as Tim’s own Bruce, in every possible way. From the tension in his shoulders and the jut of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. Probably here on Alfred’s orders, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. Tim felt something like homesickness. But there was something different about this Bruce, though Tim couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“So where’s my mom buried?” Tim asked, already sort of knowing the answer.

Bruce didn’t give any reaction, which Tim knew was calculated, but the slight pause before his words betrayed an emotion – Tim just didn’t know which one.

“I don’t know.” Bruce said finally, “She didn’t take your father’s name, and had no ties to him after you were born. You never asked about her.”

He didn’t say it like a question, but Tim could hear the askance in it. The other Tim had never asked about his mom before, had probably never expressed a desire to meet her or know her, she probably hadn’t even occurred to Bruce as someone he should look up.

“Hm,” Tim acknowledged absently, “Wonder if she’s still alive.” It didn’t really matter either way. Whoever this ‘Steven Drake’ guy was, Tim doubted he had had much resemblance to Jack. Janet’s name probably wasn’t even Janet here.

Bruce didn’t answer. Not having a response, or maybe deciding that a response was unnecessary. He didn’t apologize, but Tim didn’t expect him to. He didn’t bring up Arkham, but Tim wasn’t expecting that either.

Bruce wasn’t the kind of person to own up to things. Not with words, anyway-

“I’m… sorry, Tim.”

Tim sat up. “You what?”

Bruce didn’t say anything, either unwilling or unable to repeat himself. Instead he sat down beside Tim with only slight hesitation, probably debating the future lecture he’d get from Alfred about grass stains. He kept a distance, looked out over the hill, watching either the gravestones or the skyline.

Tim realized, belatedly, that he was waiting for a response. “Uh,” Tim said. Then, stupidly, just blurted the first thing that came to mind. “Did Alfred tell you to say that?”

Bruce did not think this was very funny. “No.”

“But he  _ did _ tell you to come here.”

“… Yes.”

“Um, okay. Wow.” Tim said. And then continued talking, like a dumbass, “You should’ve warned me, I would’ve had my video camera ready.”

“Tim.”

“Nobody’s gonna believe me when I tell them you said that. Was this planned? God, I feel like I just got hit by lightning.”

“ _ Tim _ .” Bruce emphasized. Tim shut up, which was a relief to both of them.

“You,” Bruce said slowly, like he was excavating the words out of the fucking ground, “Deserve to know.”

“It’s okay, Bruce.” The response was automatic, “I get it.”

“No,” Bruce said, “It’s not. I should have-“

“It’s okay.” Tim said again, because he wasn’t sure what else to say. And this conversation was painful enough. He really didn’t want to watch Bruce beat himself up over this, especially since he wasn’t the right person Bruce should even be talking to. “We don’t have to talk about this, I get it.”

Bruce glanced over at him, eyes flicking to the side. Tim watched Bruce observe him, as if categorizing his every similarity and difference from the person he knew. For a second, Tim thought that maybe Bruce had figured it out. That Tim wasn’t the right Tim for this universe and this Bruce.

Instead, Bruce extended his arm, moved as if he were going to put it around Tim’s shoulders, but then just… put it back down by his side.

Tim’s first thought was  _ god, this is awkward _ . But at the same time, his heart sort of went out to this Bruce who was trying so hard, in his own stilted, stoic way.

And the fact that he  _ was _ trying so hard was honestly a little unnerving. Upon closer inspection, Tim could see differences in this Bruce compared to his own. Fewer gray hairs, slightly shallower frown lines. He was tired, obviously. But he looked more like the kind of man who had a bad few weeks of sleep, rather than a bad few years. The evidence of age wasn’t as apparent.

And Tim realized the big difference, why this Bruce was open in a way that his own never had been. Not in the years Tim had known him. This Bruce had lost a child to the Joker, sure.

But he’d never had to bury one.

Tim took Bruce’s hand. And the feeling was foreign. He couldn’t remember doing this with his own Bruce, in fact he probably hadn’t. Not for anything that wasn’t, like, a manly clasp to help him up from the training mats. Not for anything that was meant as an expression of comfort.

But Bruce didn’t pull away, and held Tim’s hand in return.

Tim wondered if this was commonplace for this Tim and Bruce. Then decided that that was a mental road he didn’t want to go down. Things were already too weirdly sugarcoated since he got out of Arkham. Any sweeter and he’d start suspecting he was stuck in a simulation.

“I gotta tell all of you something.” Tim said before he could convince himself not to. “At the manor, once Dick and Barbara get here.”

Bruce’s hand tightened around Tim’s own. 

“Nothing bad,” Tim assured. “Just, something you all should know. And something I have to figure out.”

Bruce’s eyes burned with questions, but he didn’t ask anything even as Tim let go of his hand and rose to his feet. They made their way back to the cars, Bruce’s parked behind Alfred’s, and Alfred himself was waiting.

As Alfred saw the two of them come down the hill together, he gave Bruce a look that was distinctly proud. 

Dick’s arrival at the manor later that afternoon was a weird sort of whirlwind. 

Tim heard the door open from the kitchen where he was hanging out with Alfred and immediately felt a nervous energy tense his muscles. But he couldn’t figure out  _ why _ . It was just Dick. Not his, obviously. But Dick Grayson seemed overall the same in this universe. What was Tim so afraid of?

Forcing himself up, telling himself to get it over with, calming his heartrate a little, Tim made his way to the front entryway. Dick and Barbara were talking just inside the door, voices terse and hushed. Tim paused just behind the corner.

“-supposed to help if you don’t tell me what happened?” Dick was saying, tone bitter, “I had no idea he was even coming home until Alfred called me yesterday.”

“Yeah well, we didn’t either.” Barbara hissed, “There was – they were doing something to him. Alfred had to get him out of there.”

Dick sounded alarmed, “Doing someth – at Arkham? What were they doing to him?”

Barbara didn’t respond. Dick let out a frustrated noise.

“ _ Barbara _ ,” He said, and Tim had never heard Dick say her name with so much venom, “Jesus, Babs – he’s my little brother.” And something in Tim’s chest squeezed at that admission. “You can’t just keep me in the dark all the time.”

“I’m not.” Barbara snapped back, “It’s bad. Okay?”

“That’s all I get? ‘It’s bad’?”

“I know that whatever I say you’re going to put all the on blame Bruce, so excuse me if I’m not forthcoming about all the gory details.” Barbara’s voice was climbing from a hushed whisper into something louder and harder.

Dick matched her, “You’re not telling me because you want to  _ protect Bruce _ ?” That was probably Tim’s cue to intervene before things got ugly. “He’s a grown ma-“

“Hi Dick.”

Dick turned his head so fast Tim worried a little about whiplash.

Dick was across the room with his arms around Tim in no time flat.

And Tim suddenly understood that this was exactly what he was afraid of. Not that Dick Grayson would be different from Tim’s own version of him, but that he would be too much the same. That is, the Dick Grayson that Tim knew back when he was still Robin.

Tim halfheartedly raised his hands to give Dick an awkward pat on the back, and was confronted with the fact that he was probably an abysmal hugger all around. Maybe he should practice more?

“Okay, let the kid breathe, Dick.” Barbara was amused, but there was a thread of something stern in there.

“No, uh, it’s okay.” Tim said before he could stop himself, and hopefully the neediness in his voice was all in his head.

Dick’s grip tightened a little, Barbara said, “Dick.” like he was a misbehaving dog, and Tim was treated to the very unique experience of two people having a glaring match over his head. He couldn’t see it, but he knew exactly what kind of faces they were making. Dick eased up eventually, but kept his hands on Tim’s shoulders, holding him at arms length like he didn’t want to completely let go. 

Dick’s smile was bright as he said, “Welcome home, Tim.”

Okay, yep. Tim needed to tell them right now or else the flaring pains in his chest might literally kill him. Or worse, make him think about his feelings.

“Can we go to the cave?” Tim squeaked out, past the thing that had somehow lodged in his throat, “Family meeting.”

It turned out the cave here was a little bit different than the one Tim knew. Not overtly so, the dinosaur was there, the penny was there, the playing card, whatever. Most if not all of the trophies and memorabilia were present and accounted for. The one big difference was just the absence of something.

Jason’s memorial was gone.

And it shouldn’t have been surprising, really. But it was one thing to know that this world had never known Jason Todd in the way Tim’s had, and another to see it. Or - well,  _ not _ see it.

The closest thing to Jason’s memorial was a glass case displaying something similar to Tim’s old Robin uniform. The second one. But the case was lined up with a row of other costumes on display, off to the side. No plaque. Not overtly noticeable. 

Tim wondered again if there really was a Conner Kent in this universe, since he’d gone with the black and red colour scheme for a very specific, very grief-stricken purpose at the time. Although if the colours  _ were _ for Conner, it probably meant something very bad and probably death-related had happened to him. Tim decided quickly that that wasn’t a question he wanted the answers to.

Tim stood in front of the computer, feeling nervous and trying very hard to ignore it. Bruce and Alfred had already been in the cave by the time Tim, Dick, and Barbara had come down. Dick had greeted Alfred with a quick side-hug, and Bruce with a terse, “Batman.” Although Bruce’s guarded hum in response definitely wasn’t any better.

“So,” Tim started before he could psyche himself out, “I need to talk to you all about something.” God, why was he so nervous? “And I just need you all to… to hear me out, okay?”

Barbara visibly steeled herself, “You can tell us anything, Tim. You know that.”

Tim’s appreciation for her encouragement was quickly drowned out by the knowledge that she was probably expecting some kind of hospital horror story. Hopefully they’d all be relieved it was just a misunderstanding, and not try to institutionalize him. Again.

“The truth is, I’m not actually the Tim you know. I’m from another universe. I showed up here two weeks ago in the same place as your Tim, and I just need to figure out a way to get back, and then I can get your Tim back to you.”

Alfred looked sad, “Tim.” He started.

“I know what you’re going to say,” Tim said quickly, “And this isn’t a story, okay? This is real.”

When no one said anything, Tim pressed on. “Look, see this?” He lifted the hem of his shirt to show off the splenectomy scar, although he wasn’t expecting the reaction. Dick and Barbara’s eyes widened in shock, Alfred made a pained expression, and Bruce’s face turned stony. Tim quickly pulled his shirt back down, but continued. “I didn’t get it at Arkham. It was in my own universe. I was looking for Bruce in the desert, and I got involved with a couple assassin guilds, and ended up getting shish-kebab’d and Ra’s Al Ghul took out my spleen to save my life.”

Dick blinked, “Ra’s Al Ghul… saved your life?”

“Yeah, but he had ulterior motives, which is classic.” Tim felt the momentum spur him on, “He probably kept it in like… a glass case in his private collection so he could admire it, or something equally creepy. Maybe he’s making clones! I don’t know, and I don’t care, because I blew up the base anyway – and I’m getting off-track here. The point is; I didn’t lose any organs at Arkham, because I’m not the Tim who went to Arkham in the first place.”

Everyone looked at him with… at best, confusion. At worst, concern.

Tim needed more evidence, “There’s other differences too – okay? Big ones. I didn’t grow up in crime alley, for one thing. I used to live next door. I got involved with Batman because I figured out Bruce and Dick’s secret identities.”

Dick was, apparently, the only one willing to go along with this. “You figured out our secret identities?” He repeated, “How?”

“I saw Robin do a quadruple somersault on TV,” Tim explained, “I saw Dick Grayson do the same somersault at the circus five years beforehand.”

“You figured me out because of an acrobatics move?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“And you were… how old?”

“I was nine.”

“You were  _ nine _ ?”

“Is there a fucking echo in here?” Tim heard himself getting louder.

Alfred said a sharp and disapproving “Timothy.” at the language, where simultaneously Bruce said “Tim.” In something halfway to his Batman voice.

“Sorry,” Tim said dismissively, already searching for other differences, his eyes landed on Barbara. “And Babs, you’re different too.”

“I am?” She asked, “In what way?”

Tim quickly realized that explaining the wheelchair wasn’t something he could knock out with a few bits of exposition. “Um, it’s, uh… I’ll tell you later.” And before anyone could ask him to clarify, he turned to Dick, “There’s also uh, we have more siblings. More Robins. Damian has it right now, Cass is Batgirl, and Jason was the Robin before me.”

At the mention of Jason, the room got a little quieter. Alfred cleared his throat. “Ah, yes. Jason.”

Tim hesitated, “Why are you saying it like that?”

“Saying it like what?”

“‘ _ Jason _ ’, like you’ve heard of him.” And then Tim realized that they probably  _ had _ . Alfred had gotten Tim’s files from Arkham, no doubt had shown them to Bruce, and now everyone thought  _ Jason _ was Tim’s imaginary friend. 

“ _ I _ haven’t heard of him.” Dick said pointedly, glancing over to Bruce and Barbara with a look Tim didn’t recognize.

“Don’t try and antagonize me, Dick Grayson.” Barbara said, “I haven’t heard of him either.”

“Jason,” Bruce explained, looking like the words physically pained him, “Is what remains of the person Joker... made Tim into.”

“No,” Tim said quickly, trying to regain control of the conversation, “No, no – no he’s not, he’s a real person.”

Alfred’s tone was calming, “You’d told your doctor that you were having hallucinations of a person named Jason.”

“That’s because I was  _ lying _ !” Tim shouted, frustration mounting.

“But you’re not lying now.” Barbara said skeptically.

“ _ No _ ! I’m not!” Tim wanted to tear his hair out. “Why would I lie to you?”

“Because,” Alfred kept speaking in that tone of voice, but it only served to amp Tim up more, “You think it’s the truth.”

“I  _ know _ it’s the truth.”

Dick said, “Well y’know, truth is pretty objective, if you look at it a certain way.” As if he was helping at all.

Barbara scowled at this, “Can you please just focus for once?” she snapped.

“I am focused,” Dick retorted, “Tim got experimented on by some psycho doctors and now he’s from another universe, I’ve been paying attention.”

Tim didn’t want to touch whatever it was they had going on, the animosity between them spoke to something deeper. “You guys seriously have  _ never _ had an encounter with the multiverse?”

“Hm, time travel yes.” Dick said, “Dimension travel no.”

“It’s not  _ dimension travel _ -“

“Okay,” Barbara interrupted before Tim could actually blow a gasket. “Tim, look, I know that… a change in routine as drastic as this one is going to have a pretty severe impact.” She sounded like she’d read a few textbooks on the subject, “And I think you just need to cool down a little, and we can talk about, y’know, alternative coping mechanisms.”

All the hugs in the world couldn’t hold up against the familiar isolation.

Tim turned to Bruce before it could take root. “Bruce, c’mon. You know it’s possible, right?” And here it was, Tim teetering on the edge of an assurance he’d given himself over and over again. Because back when everything had gone to shit, when Tim had nowhere to go and no one to turn to and nothing but a crazy story with a few scant pieces of evidence, he’d spoken it like a mantra.  _ If Bruce were here, he would believe me _ .

And now Bruce was here, and Tim was breathless to learn if the stubborn fiction he’d crafted just to keep himself alive was actually true at all, or just another lie.

But Bruce didn’t say anything. Just stared at Tim, unreadable.

_ He thinks you’re a murderer,  _ Tim’s brain supplied unhelpfully.

“Master Tim,” Alfred said eventually, “Perhaps we can discuss this again some other time-”

“Even if I did kill the clown,” Tim said, “That doesn’t make me crazy.”

Barbara was soothing, “No one is saying that, Tim.”

“Then why won’t you  _ believe  _ me?”

“You don’t understand. You were-“ Barbara cut herself off, looking pained. “It was really bad, Tim.”

The space between Tim’s eyebrows ached from all the tension there. He stared at the cave floor for a long moment, trying to get himself under control. He was on his own, again, officially. He’d have to find a way into Wayne Enterprises on his own.

“Fine.” Tim said shortly, and turned to go up the stairs, pretending that someone wouldn’t follow him.

~

Dick had decided Tim needed some air. He’d said it exactly like that, too. Coming up to Tim while he was sulking and said, “You look like you need some air.”

And he was right, because Dick Grayson was usually right. But Tim wasn’t going to be a hundred percent happy about it, even if the idea of spending the day with Dick got a little part of him – the thirteen year old who could never seem to stop idolizing Dick part of him – extremely hyped.

They’d driven into downtown, to the walking district that had probably seen its best days a few decades prior. Branches of the street had been blocked off in equal parts to construction or danger zones, but there were a few valiant shops still open. Ones that had been around since the seventies and weren’t about to pack up shop just because Poison Ivy had made the weeds large enough to drive fissures into the road.

They wandered around a little, the street milling with people – mostly people on their way home from work, not even sparing a glance at the shops. Tim noticed Dick was a little subdued, a little less talkative. Which usually meant he was planning on having a difficult conversation.

“What’s up with you?” Tim asked, wanting to get it over with.

“Hm?” Dick pretended to look interested in the window display of an electronic repair store.

“You want to ask me something, I can tell.” Tim prodded. “What is it?”

He watched Dick clench his fists, gearing himself up for something. “What…. happened? Those few weeks – that night?” Dick asked, and when Tim looked over at him, he backed off quickly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. It’s just – Bruce and Babs were always so cagey about it. They hardly told me anything.” And Tim could tell there was resentment there. That Dick hadn’t forgiven them for it. “Honestly I’m not even sure how much Alfred knows,” Dick said, “But at least he was allowed to go visit you.”

“You weren’t… allowed?” Tim repeated.

Dick sighed, “Bruce’s orders.” He explained. “He probably thought you didn’t want to see anyone at all. Or maybe he just didn’t want  _ me _ to see you like that? I don’t know, I can never figure him out.”

Tim chewed his lip. It had probably been a combination of a lot of things. Bruce not wanting Dick to blame him for what had happened. Bruce not wanting Dick to know what had happened. But-

“Since when have Bruce’s orders stopped you from doing what you want?” Tim asked.

Dick paused, and the expression that flitted across his face was conflicted. He looked away, and when he looked back, his face was schooled back into something more composed. “How about ice cream?” He said.

Tim didn’t push it, didn’t need him to say it. Dick hadn’t wanted to see Tim in Arkham. Too painful, probably, like Bruce. Except for Dick it would have been worse, because he would only have the barest knowledge as to  _ why _ .

They stood in line in the shop, busy now that it was officially the only ice cream joint still open for a good few blocks. The others had an unfortunate encounter with Mr. Freeze. 

“I couldn’t tell you anyway, even if I wanted to.” Tim said, “I probably know about as much as you do.”

At Dick’s questioning look, Tim sighed.

“Whatever happened that night didn’t happen to me.” Tim reminded, “Different universe, remember?”

“Right.” Dick said slowly, but his attention was taken by the cashier asking for their orders. Dick ordered for them, and pistachio wasn’t Tim’s favorite, but he’d let it slide.

“All I know,” Tim said as they were handed their ice cream, “Is that the Joker happened, some torture happened, and then the me from this universe went ahead and committed clownicide.”

The cashier gave Tim an odd look. Dick covered for him quickly, “Wow, Timmy, what a weird dream you had.” He said, enunciating as if to a senile grandmother.

Back on the streets, Dick seemed to mull something over. “So what am I like?” Dick said around a mouthful of ice cream.

Tim looked up from his own paper cup, “What?”

“What am I like, in your universe?” Dick asked, “C’mon, I’m curious.”

Tim was baffled, tripping a little over his own feet. “You believe me?” This was one thing he  _ definitely _ wasn’t expecting.

“Of course I do, you’re my little brother.” Dick said it like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like it didn’t make Tim’s heart jump a little in his chest. “So c’mon, am I still cool in your universe?”

“You’re not cool in any universe.” Tim said, thankfully sounding much more confident than he felt. It was easygoing, Dick’s energy. Sort of infectious. “That’s the one constant.”

“There’s no constants in the multiverse,” Dick argued, mock offended, “That’s the whole point of a multiverse. There’s infinite possibilities. Somewhere, I am cool, and it’s probably  _ your _ universe and you’re just lying to me.”

“No way,” Tim said, “You used to have a mullet, it was awful. I was embarrassed  _ for _ you.”

“I liked my long hair!” Dick protested.

“Oh god, you had it here too?” 

“It was awesome,” Dick confirmed, “You liked it, you just didn’t want to admit it.”

Tim made a noise of disagreement, attempting to take another bite of ice cream. Before he could, Dick tugged on a lock of his hair, jerking his head to the side and causing him to smear his own cheek with pistachio.

“Sounds like stones from glass houses to me.” Dick gloated, “Getting a little mullet-y yourself, little wing.”

Tim batted his hand away, “I do  _ not _ have a mullet.” Tim said, wiping quickly at his face, “Not all long hair is a mullet.  _ You  _ had a mullet.”

Dick hummed noncommittally, specifically to get on Tim’s nerves.

Tim frowned, realizing something. “Wait – ‘little wing’?”

“Huh?”

Tim remembered again; no Jason. “Nothing.” He said, “Just not used to you calling me that.”

“Yeah,” Dick said, wistful, “It’s been a while, huh.”

Which wasn’t what Tim had meant. And Tim realized with a sinking feeling that Dick’s casual attitude and easy familiarity wasn’t just because he was Dick Grayson and this was just how he was. He was treating Tim like family. Like  _ actual  _ family.

Dick didn’t believe him, not really. He just wanted to make Tim feel better. Or maybe he was just being deliberately contrarian because Bruce and Barbara hadn’t told him what happened that night and he wanted to be petty. Or both.

“Tim?” Dick asked, “You feeling okay?”

Tim cleared his throat quickly, “Yeah,” He said, “Yeah I’m fine. I’m just kind of sick of ice cream.”

“Well in that case,” Dick plucked the cup from Tim’s hands and began eating it, having long since finished his own. “So, what  _ am _ I like in your universe?”

They sat on the windowsill of a pawn shop, watching people on their daily commute through the city. No one spared them a second glance.

“Pretty much the same.” Tim said. Even if Dick didn’t believe him completely, it  _ was _ nice to have someone who pretended to. Who didn’t treat Tim like he was crazy. Dick had always been easy to talk to. “Bludhaven, cop thing, solo thing. You  _ did _ fill in for Bruce for a while though, when things got… uh, sort of crazy.”

“Wait, you mean…” Dick frowned, looked to Tim, looked at the very public area they were in, and simply raised his pointer fingers up beside his head in an imitation of bat-ears.

“Yup,” Tim confirmed.

Dick’s expression turned to disgust, “What? Oh my – that  _ sucks _ . I take it back, the me in your universe is definitely uncool. I would never do that.”

Tim shrugged, “There were… extenuating circumstances.” He explained. “ _ I _ actually tried for the role, for a little. Mostly because I knew how much you would’ve hated it, and there wasn’t anyone else that would’ve been able to. It didn’t work out, but.”

“ _ You _ ?” Dick said incredulously, visibly thought about it, and then visibly tried very hard not to laugh.

“Hey,” Tim said, a little offended. “It was desperate times, alright?”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m just picturing it and-“ Dick muffled a little laugh, “Okay, sorry.”

“Whatever,” Tim said, “I was far from the worst option, anyway.”

Dick leaned forward, “What? Who else was there? Like – Barbara?” He put a hand to his chin, “Yeah, sorry to break it to you, kiddo, but between you and Babs she’s definitely got it in the bag.”

Tim elbowed him in the side. “Barbara didn’t try for it,” He said, and then before Dick could ask him exactly  _ why _ , “She had better things to do.”

Dick, thankfully, took him at his word. “Yeah, sounds about right.”

“The other two were Jason and Damian.” Tim explained, “One of them liked to decapitate people and then show off the heads. The other one was the same except he was also ten years old. So, y’know.” He shrugged again, “You could do a lot worse than me.”

He could tell he’d blindsided Dick with that, just from the silence. Tim watched a man with a briefcase power-walk past their window sill, speaking quickly into his phone.

“Why…” Dick started hesitantly, “Did I have to step in in the first place?”

Tim’s foot started tapping on the sidewalk, “Bruce disappeared.” He said, “Everyone except me thought he was dead.” Tim watched a group of teenagers walk by, all talking over each other on their way back from school. He couldn’t think of any other way to phrase it than, “Things got sort of crazy.”

Dick could be frustratingly perceptive at times, so Tim probably shouldn’t have been surprised when he said, “I wasn’t there for you, was I?”

“You had other stuff going on.” Tim said automatically, “You had to fill in for Bruce. You had to take care of Damian. I get it.”

“That doesn’t make it right.” Dick said, gentle. “Tim, I could never do that to you.”

Tim wanted to laugh a little, because here Dick was, pretending like it hadn’t already happened. Like it was all in Tim’s head. Remarkably similar to the way he’d reacted when Tim had told him about Bruce’s disappearance. Because Dick was understanding, he was always so understanding, and calm, and easy to talk to. But he was still operating as if Tim just needed  _ help _ .

“I promise, Tim. I would never do that to you.”

Tim said nothing, afraid of what might come out if he opened his mouth. Dick sighed, and looked down at the empty paper cups in his hand.

“I’m gonna go throw these out.” Dick said, standing.

Tim watched as he went over to the nearest trash can – already overflowing due to a lack of city funding. Down the street, a group of cyclists had turned the corner. Not the neon-color sportswear-clad cyclists someone might see in Metropolis or New York or something. Instead they were a rowdy group of kids, on bikes that couldn’t have more clearly been Frankenstein’d from about a dozen other stolen pieces.

They passed in front of Tim in a raucous line, and Tim saw his chance. Getting up from the sill, Tim used their visual distraction to slip down an alley, emerging out the other side and disappearing into the crowds. If there was one thing he couldn’t handle right then, it was Dick Grayson making promises he already hadn’t kept.

And Tim knew it wasn’t fair. This Dick was different. He didn’t mean anything by it other than complete sincerity. But somehow that had just made it worse.

And Tim needed air.

There was this park in downtown Gotham. It only stretched a few blocks, and had been around long enough that the flower beds were growing up onto the walkways, and weren’t maintained like they might’ve been years ago, so you could see patches of dead and dried plant stems sticking up in places. 

The park itself didn’t have much purpose besides a few war memorials and the old church that had become a library that had become a community center that had gotten blown up in a stunt courtesy of Two-Face and the one wall still standing had been used as a skeleton for the pub they built on top of it. The pub turned out to be a front for the mob, so that eventually closed down too. Now it was a community center again.

Tim stared at the building, trying to figure out why it looked foreign to him. It shouldn’t have. He flew over this part of Gotham almost every night. Maybe this was some kind of incredibly subtle multiverse difference. The history of the property was still the same, sure, but maybe when they rebuilt it they did it a few inches to the left.

Then Tim realized; he’d never seen it in daylight before.

He tried to remember when he’d last been in the streets of downtown Gotham as Tim, as himself. Sure his apartment was right in Gotham’s heart, but he only ever left there in his Red Robin uniform, or to go to the Wayne branch. He hadn’t been in this park since…

Since he was ten, probably. Before Robin, at the very least.

That felt like a lifetime ago, now.

It was strange, showing his face in Gotham but still being virtually invisible. He’d almost gotten used to the media attention, between his dad dying and his adoption and Bruce’s disappearance and Tim’s “engagement” along with forcing himself into the Wayne company, Vicki Vale had had an endless supply of news about him for over a year now. And if she couldn’t find it, she’d just make something up.

In this universe, Tim Drake had tragically been put away three years ago. The only thing halfway remarkable about him was his adoption by Bruce Wayne, and that was old news, now.

Honestly it was sort of a relief. No one was watching him now. He was just a Gothamite kid in a park.

With all the park benches taken by Gotham’s homeless, Tim sat on the grass, hoping no one had spit there recently, and tried to collect his thoughts.

Three people in bright tank tops passed him. One had a camera around her neck that would probably get swiped by the end of the day. She didn’t seem worried about something like that, though. One of them – the guy with the dyed hair – pointed up at the skyscraper towering across the street.

“That building was funded by the Wayne Foundation back in the 1930’s.” He was saying, “There’s a few historians that say the construction boom of the time was one of the reasons Gotham City made it through the Great Depression. You can tell this one and the other buildings still standing came from that era because of the art-deco architecture. The gargoyles are new though, the old ones had to be replaced.”

Camera girl took a picture. “It inspired a lot of future Gotham architects,” The guy continued, “You know the city council actually had a policy about only hiring local designers? That’s why the style of the place is so cohesive. The designs are all in conversation with each other. They dissolved the policy a while ago so all the new stuff is probably from famous architects from Japan or something, but it’s still cool.”

The third person rolled their eyes, “Yeah, sure. So fun that this whole city looks like Halloween Town.”

“Honestly, we should’ve come in the fall,” The guy said, “It’d be cool to see it in October.”

“Cool until you get killed by some new debuting super villain.” They retorted, “Did you see the chart on crime rates? Gotham skims the top and then goes off the page every fall season.”

They continued bickering out of earshot while Tim watched them from his spot in the grass. It was rare to see tourists at any time of year, really. Not exactly Gotham’s most robust industry. He watched the girl with the camera fiddle with her settings. Tim figured at least the accommodations were pretty cheap.

But as he watched them all take in the buildings, the parks, the general feel of Gotham, he felt a strange sense of distance between him and the city. A distance he hadn’t fully realized until now. How long had it been since he’d seen Gotham as a  _ city _ instead of… some kind of infection, or diseased rot of the world.

How long had it been since he’d looked at the skyline and seen buildings instead of targets. Seen people instead of suspects, or risks.

He watched the group watching the buildings and landmarks, probably heading off to amusement mile for the evening, or maybe a club off seventh avenue. He thought about English teacher Mr. Joey and his goat-cheese salads and videos about plastic bags, and seeing beauty in the most unlikely of places. And as he watched the girl snap a photo of her two friends, who were posing beside the mural wall of the community center, none of them with any idea that that wall used to belong to pubs and libraries and churches and was still somehow marching along armored with a few layers of finger-paint and worn out granite. They didn’t know anything about it, they just thought it was beautiful.

Tim didn’t know anything about them, either. And watching the three of them, Tim thought he could maybe see what Mr. Joey was trying to say.

He wondered if this was the kind of stuff lonely people thought about.

Once again, he found himself straying to the things Dr. Grock had said. About what he did or didn’t deserve. About family. About love. About acclimatizing to things like sadness, like loneliness, to the point where leaving them behind feels like losing a part of yourself.

Tim had grown up in a house with five bedrooms. Three of them were meant to be guest bedrooms, but it might as well have been four, for the amount of time his parents spent in their own. The house didn’t fit him. Too spacious. Like the novelty t-shirts his parents would sometimes send him, bought from the airports of places like Bangkok or Cambodia, always a size or two too large. 

Time was the enemy for Tim, in those days. Every morning the day yawned open before him, empty and long. Left with idle hands and too much time on them, he got busy with hobbies and distractions and he willed himself not to think about any of the equally empty days that would follow.

He supposed he should be grateful. He’d tried to be, even then. He’d been given room to grow. He knew kids at boarding school who’d been smothered their whole lives. Who barely had room to breathe. Who packed themselves into little boxes and small spaces not made by them but  _ for _ them, and whose psychological bones would grow crooked and cramped until they could barely stand on their own.

Tim had nothing but space. Space to grow. Time to think.

But too much space could make a person awfully lonely.

He thought about Dick Grayson, the one of this universe. Who acted so much like his own Dick Grayson back when Tim was younger that it almost hurt a little to be around him. 

Tim knew he lied to himself. Dr. Grock wasn’t wrong about that. But so did everyone else. Everyone has to lie to themselves sometimes in order to make life bearable, just day to day. 

You have to tell yourself you’re a good person, even on the days you worry it might not be true. You have to tell yourself things will be okay soon, even with all evidence to the contrary. You have to. You  _ have _ to. Just to keep going.

So Tim told himself it was good, actually, that his parents weren’t around. Nobody breathing down his neck to finish school assignments, or to clean his room. And if his parents  _ had _ been around to do things like cook dinner or tuck him into bed, he never would’ve learned how to cook for himself. He never would’ve been able to see Batman and Robin. He was proud, almost proud enough to completely drown out the twinge of longing when his friends complained about having to sneak out their windows at night if they wanted to catch a midnight screening at the theatre, because for him ‘sneaking out’ meant walking out the front door. He could stay up as long as he wanted, watch movies that weren’t supposed to be watched by ten year olds, turn up his music as loud as it could go. Nobody to tell him no.

But it never seemed to fill the space.

And then there was Dick Grayson. Going ahead and calling Tim his brother, years before the thought of adoption even crossed Bruce’s mind. And Dick wasn’t  _ really _ his brother, something that Tim had to remind himself of, but he was  _ there _ . He was somebody, and he was there. And it started to change the way Tim thought about his life, about space, about how – no matter how much you had – it didn’t really mean much if you didn’t have people to share it with. At least every once in a while.

It was strange, to be loved up close when Tim had only known it from a distance. And it hurt more to have it up close for a few years only for it to draw back. Not quite gone, but distant. Out of reach.

Tim hadn’t stopped lying to himself about it though. He told himself he and Dick drew apart because Tim wasn’t a kid anymore, even though Bruce’s ‘death’ and Damian’s arrival might’ve been better contenders. But he told himself that anyway. Because he had to, to keep going.

But then here Tim was, not any more of a kid than he was in his own universe. And here was this Dick Grayson, treating him like he used to. No Damian. Bruce’s life never in any doubt. 

Turned out it hurt even more to have that old love returned as if it never even left. And to know it would be gone when Tim went back to where he belonged.

It would’ve been better if he’d never known anything other than space. If he never knew what it was he was missing, he could’ve pretended the longing in his chest was just a part of him. Just a part of life. He missed it. That familiar misery. The one he’d acclimatized to long ago. He wished he could see it as something indivisible from himself again. He wished that either option – letting it go, or holding on – could be done painlessly.

But the loneliness was like a knife in his soul. If he took the knife out he would bleed. Everything he’d kept inside would spill up and stain him like ink. He might bleed to death. The wound might get infected. But at the same time the wound would never heal if he did nothing. But of course the knife was metaphorical and taking it out could never be so easy.

And that was the thing that  _ really _ scared him. The thought that maybe the loneliness was all he really had, and all he really was. And what if it couldn’t be removed without removing him entirely? And what if he tried to remove it but it stayed anyway? What if it was forever?

“Hey!” The shout made him jump, and Tim turned his head in the direction of the voice.

Down the path was a homeless woman, trying to make her way towards him. A severe limp slowed her down, and her tattered fur coat swung back and forth in time with her lurching gait. But her eyes were alight with recognition,

“Hey! Kid!” She shouted, voice rough.

And that was his cue to disappear. Attention was the last thing he wanted right now, and if more people started to recognize a Wayne in their midst, next thing he knew it would be in the papers. Vicki Vale could and would make a scandal out of anything, including an afternoon walk.

Leaving the park, he slipped into the downtown crowd with practiced ease, and started brainstorming excuses to tell Dick. Once he was inevitably tracked down.

~

Dick did not, as it turned out, appreciate being ditched.

“I will not be dragging you by your ear to the car,” He announced as Tim rounded the corner, “But know that, emotionally, I am dragging you by your ear.”

“Sorry, Dick.” Tim said, for the second time now. 

Once Tim had found Dick again, who had been shouting Tim’s name extremely (embarrassingly) loud into the crowd of shoppers and commuters, he’d launched into his cover story. He got distracted by something in a shop and went in, not knowing that Dick wasn’t following him. When he came out again, he couldn’t find Dick anywhere. Dick had given him a Look, far from convinced. But in the end, Dick had sighed theatrically, flicked him hard on the forehead with an audible  _ thwack,  _ and told him not to pull another stunt like that again. 

Then, with Tim still clutching his stinging forehead, Dick had turned and set off at a brisk pace back to the parkade. Tim jogged a little to catch up, internally cursing – not for the first time – his short-ass legs.

“I really am sorry.” Tim said as he got into the passenger seat, doing his best to sound sorry.

Dick didn’t say anything, didn’t start the car either.

“Dick-“ Tim started.

“You can’t do that.” Dick said, finally turning towards Tim, expression so serious that Tim might’ve actually flinched back a little. “You can’t…  _ disappear _ like that, okay?” When Tim didn’t reply immediately, Dick repeated, “ _ Okay _ ?”

“Okay,” Tim said, a little baffled.

Dick let out a breath, put his hands on the steering wheel, and closed his eyes. Like he was trying to calm himself down. “You can’t –“ He started, stopped. Started again, “If something happened again… if somebody had-“

“Dick, that wasn’t me.” Tim said quietly, “That’s what I’ve been telling you. It wasn’t me.”

“That doesn’t matter!” Dick said, suddenly loud, “If you went missing again-“

“I never went missing!” Tim emphasized, frustration bubbling to the surface, “I already told you that  _ wasn’t me _ .” The betrayal settled high in Tim’s throat, stinging like bile. “You  _ said  _ you believed me.”

Dick exhaled through his nose, steering wheel gripped tight, “Look – I  _ want _ … I want to believe you, okay? I really do. But you’re-” He turned to Tim again, the concern laid bare across his face, “Look, Timmy, different universe or not, you’re still my little brother. And I can’t… If someone, if some  _ people _ at Arkham really did do something to you-“

“No one  _ did _ anything to me-“

“I just can’t let anything bad happen to you, okay!?” Dick shouted. Tim moved back a little, and Dick turned abruptly apologetic, “Not again.” 

The silence hung with a charged air, Tim watched as Dick made the effort to swallow, practically strangling the steering wheel in front of him.

“I couldn’t… I couldn’t live with myself, if I just…” Dick shook his head, “You’re just a kid.”

Tim’s mind felt like it was operating with some pieces missing. He couldn’t think of what to say.

“I’m supposed to look out for you,” Dick stressed, “And I wasn’t there when you went missing. And I couldn’t even  _ see _ you afterwards, when they found you. Because – because you might’ve asked me  _ why  _ I wasn’t there… And I didn’t have an answer. Still don’t.”

“You were busy-“

“For  _ three weeks _ ?” Dick was getting impassioned again, removing a hand from the wheel so he could gesture with it, “For three weeks I was working some  _ stupid _ case on Blockbuster when I should’ve been looking for you! Of course it didn’t help that Bruce never even told me you were missing, and when I finally did find out, he said he had it handled. And I believed him. Like an  _ idiot,  _ I believed him. And you were –  _ god _ I don’t even know! Because no one  _ told  _ me!” The anger was palpable now, but Tim knew it wasn’t directed at him. Dick was angry at Bruce, at Barbara, at himself.

“And then,” Dick said, “I find out that Alfred had to practically break you out of Arkham because some crazy doctors were experimenting on you or harvesting your organs or something!”

Tim waited for Dick to take a few breaths before saying, “If it makes you feel any better, they probably weren’t experimenting on him.” Dick didn’t say anything back. “And I definitely didn’t lose my spleen in Arkham.”

Dick shook his head a little, “I want to believe you.” He looked tired. “I want to, Tim, I promise. I just… there’s two theories right now, and the worse one is… still the most likely. As much as I wish it wasn’t.”

After a beat, Dick started the car. Tim said the only thing he could think of. “I won’t disappear again, Dick. You don’t have to worry about me.”

Dick just nodded, jaw tight. 

It was a quiet drive back to the manor.

~

And the manor itself was quiet in the early hours of the morning.

The list of things that Tim did not have at his disposal was frustratingly long. This universe’s Tim hadn’t been there in three years, so there was no laptop Tim could use for research, no gear Tim could steal for some late night escapade, and worst of all - no car.

Also Alfred had locked the garage, so even if Tim was willing to risk getting pulled over without a license, he wouldn’t be able to pilfer one of Bruce’s car’s anyway. 

Luckily though, if this Bruce was anything like Tim’s Bruce, he was a paranoid stalker who kept multiple backups of the Wayne Industries files secretly uploaded on the Bat-computer. Tim just needed a chance to access it.

Which was why he ended up creeping in to Bruce’s study at four in the morning. Late enough that Bruce would be back from patrol and snoozing the morning away, but early enough that Tim could get in a solid hour of research before Alfred got up at five.

Tim held his breath as he descended the cave stairs, checking to make sure the batmobile was safely parked. He turned to make sure no one was about to follow him down the steps, and quickly approached the batcomputer console. 

And immediately stopped in his tracks when he saw Bruce was there.

He hadn’t seen Tim yet, probably, hunched as he was in the glow of the screen, typing something into the keyboard.

Bruce only used his index and middle fingers while typing, pecking harshly at the keys like an angry woodpecker. It was something Tim used to rib him for constantly. Even though his typing speed was as fast as anyone else - through sheer force of will alone, probably - Tim always liked that he was so... inefficient about it. So human.

Tim wondered if his counterpart made fun of this Bruce too. If this Bruce had merely grunted in disdain, as Tim’s Bruce did, or if he would huff out a laugh. Make a retort. Make a joke. This Bruce didn’t have the shadow of Jason’s death hanging over him. And for that matter, neither did this Tim. Maybe things were different here.

Tim shook the thought off, resolved to come back later, and began to back away slowly from the console, when-

“Tim.”

Busted.

Tim jumped, trying not to look like he was just caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Bruce.” He settled on, trying for casual. Like a  _ hey, fancy meeting you here. In your secret hideout under your house. _

Bruce didn’t say anything back for a long moment. A little too long, honestly.

“Well,” Tim said, grasping at straws, “Uh, tough case?”

The glare from the screen cut shadows into Bruce’s face, and what little of his expression Tim could see was like stone. 

But then he said, “I want to give you something.”

Bruce reached over the desk as Tim approached with wary hesitance. He took something from beside a framed photo half-hidden under the monitor, although the screen was too bright for Tim to get a proper look at it.

Bruce held out a batarang. Tim took it, confused. And Bruce’s gaze didn’t move from Tim’s face, watching him closely. This was a test, Tim understood. He just wasn’t sure what for.

He inspected the batarang. It was one of the older models, clunkier and heavier than the newer ones. Spots of rust roughened the texture of the dull blade, the opening hinge had stuck halfway, leaving one wing sort of crooked. Other than that, Tim had no idea.

“Uh, thanks?” He said. The thing felt alien in his hands. For a fleeting moment, Tim worried that this was some kind of re-initiation. Like Bruce was about to ask him to be Robin again. Tim immediately berated himself for thinking it. That was obviously ridiculous.

“You don’t recognize it.” Bruce said. And it was phrased like a question, even if it wasn’t spoken like one. 

Tim answered anyway, “No? Not this one specifically, anyway. Why, is it important somehow?”

Bruce hummed a little, took back the batarang, and turned back to the computer. Tim followed his attention to the screen, and realized Bruce had been looking through Arkham files. Specifically the ones about Tim.

“Just over two weeks ago,” Bruce started, “There was a small energy surge at Arkham. It took out the main generator, but the backup was running fine. They repaired it a day later.”

Tim noticed a window in the corner of the screen, buried by the others Bruce had open. All of them were things like security reports, invoices from the electrical companies, visitation forms (and it was a little daunting, the way the repeated “Alfred Pennyworth”’s crawled their way up the page over and over and over again). But the half-hidden window was clearly security footage. Tim felt a twist in his gut at the idea that Bruce might’ve been looking through it all. The therapy sessions. The nights in his room. He didn’t remember a security camera being in the room itself but there might’ve been one behind the observation window for all he knew.

“What are you saying?” Tim said cautiously, hands searching for his pockets now that he had nothing to hold on to.

“A powerful generator may be necessary if we’re going to get you back to your own universe.” Bruce explained.

And it was like a weight off his shoulders.

“You - wait, hold on.” Tim felt his heartbeat loud in his ears, “You want to help me?”

“Yes.”

“You  _ believe  _ me?” Something buoyant had settled in him. Giddy with relief.

Bruce looked him dead in the eye and said, “Yes.” And he was telling the truth.

Tim blinked rapidly, “The - the batarang?”

“It meant a great deal to this universe’s Tim.”

“The power surge?”

“Likely due to the energy release from the transference.”

Tim exhaled, feeling boneless. “Holy shit.”

“Language.”

Tim laughed a little at that, although it was more of a breathy release of air. He leaned against the desk, energy buzzing through him.

Bruce’s mouth quirked in something adjacent to a smile, disappearing as quickly as it came. He cleared his throat, pulling up another file. “There’s something else I wanted to ask you.” 

It was a scanned image of a visitor’s form, one that would have to be approved by Tim’s legal guardian before the person could start making visits. The handwriting on the form was atrocious, and the form itself was only half filled-out, like it had been tossed.

“You mentioned your mother.”

Tim frowned, “Yeah?”

“Does the name ‘Dana Winters’ mean anything to you?”

Tim frowned, “What?” That didn’t make any sense. Even if there was  _ a _ Dana Winters in this universe, there was no way she would know who Tim was. His dad died before he would’ve met her.

“About a year ago,” Bruce said, “Someone tried to come see you at Arkham.”

“Him.” Tim corrected absently, focus taken by the report blown up on the screen.

“Right.” Bruce faltered, but kept on, “She was turned away, since she couldn’t provide any evidence that she and… and our Tim were actually related, or that she had any kind of legal claim of guardianship. But she called herself Dana Winters, and she called herself your mother.” He paused. “ _ His _ mother.”

“Is there any footage of her?”

“You’d recognize her?”

Tim chewed his lip, “She was - in my universe she was my step-mom, but it… the timeline doesn’t make sense for her to be here. Unless… maybe she and  _ this _ Tim’s dad were dating before he died? But then why wouldn’t she have reached out earlier? Why wouldn’t you know about her?”

“All good questions.” Bruce said, “Unfortunately the Arkham staff digitized all their records a few months ago, and the transition from tape to digital corrupted the file. There’s nothing substantial except the note here.”

Tim squinted at the chicken-scratch handwriting on the visitors form, someone had taken down a vague physical description. Blonde, blue eyes, about 5’5” give or take a few inches. And it certainly sounded like Dana. But  _ why _ ? Why not come see him earlier? Why not try again?

“Is it possible to talk to the person who saw her?” He asked.

“I checked already, the person working the information desk that day quit a few weeks later, they’ve since gone on a spiritual cleansing kick and is currently at a Tibetan monastery.”

“Great,” Tim muttered, “So no chance for any follow up then.”

The mystery itched at Tim’s skin, but he tried to refocus. Whoever this woman was, Dana Winters or no, she didn’t matter to his getting back to his own universe.

He almost wanted to keep going, though. Keep running through the dead ends and false leads here with Bruce. This rhythm between him and Bruce was invigorating, the easy way they could follow each other’s wavelengths, the familiar back and forth of piecing together the full story. It was nice. Comfortable and familiar. And a little nostalgic. Tim hadn’t had this kind of thing for a while.

All the more reason not to get too settled. The sooner he got back the better.

“I wanted to look through the Wayne Research and Development lab files.” Tim said quickly, before he could do too deep of a dive. “See if there’s something similar that I could use to get me home.”

Bruce said, “Of course,” without missing a beat. Although Tim got the feeling that he too was shaking himself out of the easy patterns.

And it made something warm grow between Tim’s ribs. The fact that Bruce, even if it wasn’t his Bruce, was still someone Tim could work well with, yes. But more so that Bruce was so clearly on his team. That Bruce had pursued the avenues he needed to convince himself and had offered his help.

That Tim wasn’t alone in this.

He fought a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey happy new year everybody!
> 
> you may notice that this fic actually has a set chapter count now! surprise surprise i kind of know where i want to go with this and how i want to end it. it also means that we're just about halfway through so woof. i thought this would max out around 20k at most lol
> 
> next chapter: what even happened to jay-jay, anyway?
> 
> hope you enjoyed, and i'll see you all in 2020 <3


	8. Whatever Happened to Baby Jay?

**Tim**

Tim was thinking about spirals.

The glass of his window was fogged in the early morning, and Tim was drawing shapes in the moisture, doing his best to _only_ think about spirals.

His fingers traced the loops. Spiral down or up or out or in but never in a straight line. Avoid the center.

Avoid –

~

**Steph**

Other Tim was strange to be around. After their first meeting, Steph avoided him as much as possible. The thing was, he was so much like _their _Tim that it was damn unsettling to see all the tiny differences between them. He was so familiar, and watching him, Steph could almost believe he was the Tim Drake she knew. But then something would be different; he’d pronounce a word a little different, he’d laugh at a joke she knew her Tim would hate. Or even little things. Just a million little differences that she couldn’t quite put her finger on, but that unsettled her all the same.

Bruce and Alfred didn’t seem to mind, and Jason apparently liked this version better than theirs. But Steph knew he put Cass on edge. And Steph didn’t trust anyone who did that.

So when she stumbled downstairs for a glass of water (and maybe a little something for her insomnia) only to find Other Tim rooting around in their kitchen knives… she was on guard. She flipped the switch for the kitchen light, and Tim winced, the cutlery he was messing with clanged in the drawer. There was another big difference, she noted. _Their_ Tim would never let himself be caught off guard like that.

“And what do you think you’re doing?” Steph took a cocky stance, hoping she could look intimidating in her pajamas. It would never have worked on their Tim, but other Tim looked appropriately daunted. Steph wouldn’t deny it made her feel kind of cool.

“Looking for scissors,” He said sheepishly, closing the knife drawer with a soft click, “You guys don’t keep them in the same place anymore.”

Steph was not about to relax just because she saw neither of his hands were actively holding a knife. Unskilled as he was, this Tim was still Robin at some point. And as far as she knew, he was as good of a liar as their own. “What for?” She snipped.

Tim reached up, Steph tensed, ready for anything, but he just grabbed a handful of his own hair. “_This_.” He emphasized with a groan, “I look like early-days Nightwing, and that is _not_ a look I want to go for.”

Steph was stunned into a few beats of silence.

“Plus…” Tim shrugged, “I dunno, I need a change, I guess.”

Steph forced herself to relax in tiny increments, “So you were just going to cut it yourself? Have you ever cut your own hair before?”

“Sure I have,” He insisted, “Ever since I was a kid.”

And Steph felt a small part of herself reach out to this Tim – other Tim. The part of herself that used to cut her own bangs in the bathroom because her dad just blew his last paycheck and she knew he wouldn’t pay for a salon. Her Tim never understood stuff like that. He sympathized, sure. But it was always a little too pitying for Steph to really open up about it.

But this Tim, with a proud sort of defiance that Steph saw in her own younger self, he got it just as much as she did. He’d lived it.

“Somehow I can’t imagine any haircut with you at the helm turning out any good.” Steph said with a small smile. “But here,” She opened the proper drawer. “Let me help you out.” So long as she was the one operating the sharp object, she felt a little better about it.

Tim returned her smile, and Steph quickly stopped herself from getting fooled into thinking they were bonding. According to Cass, he liked to mimic, or something.

“You think _you_ could do better?” He challenged, and the light teasing was so much like her Tim, the dissonance was disorienting. But was he for real, or just copying her tone of voice? The unpredictability made her skin itch.

“Oh I _know _I could, bird boy. C’mon upstairs.”

Tim followed her with an eager little bounce in his step, which she decided not to find endearing. They ended up in the bathroom attached to Tim’s room. Well, not this Tim – ugh this was confusing. She wheeled over his creaky old dorito-dust stained desk chair, deciding it couldn’t get any more wrecked than it already was, and sat him down in front of the mirror beside the sink.

Steph had never actually cut anyone’s hair besides her own before, but she could fake the confidence. Besides, Tim didn’t seem to mind. He directed her on how short he wanted it (pretty damn short, she was surprised) and was content to watch her snip at it.

“I thought you said you liked your hair longer,” Steph said absently, shearing away a few more inches.

“No I didn’t.” Tim was incredulous, and Steph had to remind herself that this was _not_ her Tim. “They used to buzz it short at Arkham.”

Steph stilled, “…Oh?” She said, attempting casual.

“When it got too long they’d shave it all off.” Tim explained, cavalier, “It’d be all fuzzy for a couple weeks after that.” He stared into the mirror, “It was nice, sometimes. I would’ve been getting a cut soon, if I stayed there.”

Steph cleared her throat, “Well, you’re out now.” She aimed for a light tone, “You can have any style you want.”

“Can you make it more spiky at the top?”

“I can try.”

They fell into a silence. Comfortable on Tim’s end, not so much on Steph’s. She tried not to think about other universes, and how much this Tim’s life had gone down the toilet. It was like a glimpse into a funhouse mirror, seeing this Tim. A haunted funhouse mirror. Steph never wanted to feel this kind of split pity and suspicion. Not for any version of Tim that might exist. And yet here she was, stewing in it.

But he was just so… sincere. In the parts where he was like Tim, and the parts where he wasn’t. Even in the differences, he made it seem natural. True.

Steph never liked to doubt Cass, because Cass was very rarely wrong, and the few times Steph actually _had_ doubted her had ended very badly. But she still had this feeling… this feeling when she watched this Tim’s eyes droop as she ran his hands soothingly through his hair, when he tried a couple times to shake himself awake only to start dropping off again. She had a feeling that maybe Cass was wrong. Maybe Cass was just observing the dissonance, and there wasn’t anything sinister lying beneath. Maybe they were all just paranoid, and unaccepting of the differences that experience makes in behavior.

Steph finished with a flourish, stowing the scissors safely in her pajama pocket and scrubbing her hands quickly through Tim’s hair to wake him up. “Snap to it bird brain, and observe my masterpiece.” She directed his head to the mirror.

He leaned in, turned his head this way and that, put a hand to his chin in such a painfully distinct Tim-move. He hummed, “It’s… messy.” He concluded. He turned to grin at her, “I love it.”

Steph found herself smiling back.

Tim glanced at her hair, “You should do something with yours.” He suggested. “You’d look really cool with a Mohawk.”

Steph inspected her own hair in the mirror, debating. “Definitely no Mohawk.” She clarified, “But maybe…” She turned away from the mirror, “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

With the scissors back in their drawer, Steph returned to the bathroom with a pair of latex gloves and two packets of grape Kool-Aid – kept in the pantry as per Dick’s request and Alfred’s despair.

A girl she knew in middle school had showed Steph how to do this, because neither of them could afford actual hair dye. She set about mixing the powder with Tim’s fancy conditioner, staining it a wonderful purple.

Tim watched her passively, resting his head on his arms and his arms on the porcelain edge of the sink, quiet. The wheels of the chair tracked little paths into the strands of black hair littering the bathroom floor.

“So Tim,” Steph started, working the color into the ends of her hair, “You haven’t met me before, right?”

Tim frowned in confusion, Steph was willing to admit it was sort of a weird question, but she was curious.

“… No?” He said, although he stared at her like he wasn’t totally sure.

“You’ve never, like, heard of me before?” Steph pressed.

Tim shook his head a little, “No, sorry.”

Come on, she must’ve existed in his universe _somehow_. “Really? Nothing? I don’t remind you of anybody?”

Tim shrugged, “I don’t – uh, I have these sort of... I have trouble remembering. Sometimes.” He said hesitantly, but before she could respond to that, he switched gears, painting on a corny smile. “Besides, I think I would’ve remembered meeting somebody like you.”

It startled a laugh out of her, “Oh no you don’t, wonder boy.” Steph said, trying and failing to keep the color in her hair from staining her shirt. “You’d better not be flirting with me right now.”

His face went red at that, and he tried to stammer out a response, “I wasn’t – I uh, I mean, I’m not-”

Steph laughed again, “I’m kidding.” She said, “Geez, you’re even worse with girls than-“ She stopped quickly before she could mention him, their Tim. “-than I thought.” She finished clumsily.

He frowned, embarrassed, blush still on his cheeks. It reminded her of when she’d first met Tim, how awkward and dorky he was around her. It was better, Steph thought, than when he’d try to boss her around. It was better than the way he became later.

And Steph knew that the way he became later was a little bit her fault. And Steph knew that things wouldn’t be the same between them.

And it was nice, this reminder of how things used to be. Her Tim now always felt so far away.

Tim hummed, “The first girl I ever had a crush on turned into Clayface.” At Steph’s surprised look, he said, “Her name was Annie.”

“That’s... rough.” Steph said eventually.

Tim’s jaw worked, staring at the purple stains in the sink but not really seeing them. “Do you think I’ll ever get a real girlfriend?”

And something in Steph told her that that wasn’t all he was asking. That he was aware, on some level, that something was wrong. That people treated him different than they should. He was told not to leave the manor, and he’d never asked why. Not because he didn’t care, but because he already knew.

‘Girlfriend’ was code for normalcy. Some return to a form that Tim had lost. Some future beyond the place that he was right then.

But Steph couldn’t answer that, not truthfully. Because she didn’t know. They barely knew what was wrong with him. What kind of monsters hid in the dark corners of his mind. She had no idea if they would ever go away enough for him to function. She had no idea what would happen to him once they found a way to send him back.

They might be sending him back to Arkham.

Instead she said, “You’ll have to get rid of all your fake girlfriends first.”

Tim laughed a little at that, and then went quiet. He laughed different than her Tim, which Steph thought was probably a strange thing to notice.

~

**Tim**

Dick wanted him to tell a story. The first one. The bad one.

It was just Tim and Dick in the study, not at the desk, that was Bruce’s spot. Instead Tim was on the couch, Dick in the armchair.

Tim didn’t look at the door, but he knew it was closed.

Tim wasn’t cornered, but he felt surrounded.

Tim didn’t look at Dick’s face, pained and patient. And waiting for a story.

Tim didn’t want to look at

The stage cowering under empty seats, waiting for a show.

~

**Alfred**

“Tim,” Dick was saying, voice distorted slightly by the live feed, “I need you to help me out here.”

Alfred, however much he tried not to, felt sorry for the Tim in the study. His pity for the Tim in the study nearly rivaled the worry he felt for the Tim in the multiverse and overall it was just too much to give any reasonable thought to. Yet he still stood beside Bruce, stony and silent in his vigil by the screen, listening in on the conversation happening upstairs.

The cave was vacant besides Bruce and Alfred, everyone else departing for their nightly patrols. Damian’s lip had curled when Bruce informed them all he would be staying behind, yet again, but said nothing untoward. If for no other reason than the pointed look Dick had sent his way.

Bruce and Dick had come up with this plan, conjured both parts from a frustrating lack of progress on the multiverse investigation, and a curiosity to find out exactly what had happened to this specific version of Tim Drake. Dick, acting as someone that Tim knew and trusted but who – as far as anyone could discern – was _not_ present for the death of the Joker, would get Tim to explain what exactly had happened to him. The mics planted in the study would grant Bruce access to the tale as it unfolded.

This seemed to Alfred like a breach of privacy. Surely Tim would prefer to tell them his trauma when he was ready to tell it, and not have it pried out of him like a particularly nasty splinter.

But Alfred was worried about him, the Tim that was still lost. And admittedly, guilty of his own curiosity as well.

“Tim?” Dick prompted.

“I don’t like that one.” Tim said suddenly. And Alfred noticed how his tone had picked up a flat affect. It was unsettling, at best. “That one is kind of a downer.”

“I know, I know it is.” Dick said, “But I wanted to hear it from you – how it happened.” There was a long pause, with only the quiet crackle of a mic. “How about you start with… what you were doing. Before you saw the Joker.”

A thumping pattern started up in quick staccato, Tim was moving his leg, anxious.

When he didn’t speak, Dick tried again, “Were you out looking for him, or-?”

“I don’t-“ Tim interrupted, “I don’t like that story.”

“I know, Tim.” Dick was sympathetic, “But it would be a big help if you could tell me.”

The response was quick, “I don’t need help.” Not sharp, but fast. “I’m not sick.”

Dick, wisely, didn’t dispute that. “I meant that it would be a big help to _me_… if you could tell me.”

The thumping slowed. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I care about you,” Dick said easily, “Because I want to understand.”

Tim was quiet for a long time.

“And,” Dick said, “Because it would help me out with a case.”

Alfred watched Bruce intently, but there was no change to his expression.

“It would help you out with a case?” Tim repeated, but it wasn’t incredulous or disbelieving. And a sneaking suspicion that the ethics of this situation were definitely more than a little skewed made itself known to Alfred.

“Yeah,” Dick confirmed, “It involves the circumstances of Joker’s death. And hearing it from you might be the piece I need to figure it out.”

He wasn’t technically lying, Alfred reasoned. The case they were working on was the disappearance of Tim Drake, and the disappearance of Tim Drake _did_ involve this… other Tim Drake, and whose greatest mysteries involved the death of the Joker.

And yet, Alfred knew that this strategy was manipulative. Dick was counting on Tim doing anything and everything to help in whatever way he could, because that was exactly what their own Tim would do. Up to and including divulging his own trauma.

“It’s… you need it?” Tim was asking.

And, Alfred thought with some frustration, he wasn’t asking _why_ often enough. Alfred didn’t know if it was an intrinsic difference between the two Tim’s, or if this one was making the active decision _not_ to ask too many questions, but he just… he wasn’t asking _why_ often enough. Not for the details of the case, not for the specific information needed, not for who, what, why, or how this case even mattered. All he needed to know, was that Dick needed to know.

“Yeah.” Dick said, apparently a little baffled that that had even worked.

“… Okay, but don’t tell Bruce I told you.” Tim began tapping his foot again. “I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

Alfred frowned at that. Dick seemed to pick up on the discrepancy as well, “If - wait. Why would Bruce send you to Arkham if he wanted you to keep it a secret? The doctors would’ve needed to know.”

“That’s… hm. He told me to keep it secret.”

“This specifically? Or are you thinking of something else? Like, when you became Robin, maybe?”

“Hm, um… I don’t really remember.” The sound of some nervous shuffling, “I used to be pretty good at keeping secrets, I think.”

“I’m sure you were.” Dick said kindly.

“Yeah, ‘till I spilled my guts to the clown.” Tim laughed without humor. Stopped. Sniffed a little wetly. “Whoops.”

“Tim, it’s okay.” Dick assured him quietly, “He’s gone now, like you said.”

A long silence where Tim might’ve nodded. Dick breathed a small sigh.

“Take as long as you need.” Dick said, “Just… start from the beginning.”

“Uh… I don’t know,” Tim said reluctantly, “I was thirteen, and stupid.” He sniffed again, “And I thought I could handle a patrol on my own. And I… there was a lady in trouble.”

His voice tremored, and Alfred’s heart went out to him.

“But she wasn’t in trouble.” Tim said, “It was a trap, set for Robin.”

There was a long pause, and just when Alfred thought to suggest going up to check on them, Tim continued.

“They took him to where Batman wouldn’t find him, and the Joker started asking questions. Questions about Batman, and who he was. And Robin didn’t tell, not at first.”

_Robin_ instead of _I_, Alfred noticed. No doubt Dick had too. He wondered if it was on purpose, or an unconscious attempt of Tim’s to distance himself from the event.

“But they…” Tim’s voice cracked, “It _hurt _too much, after a while. And Batman wasn’t showing up. And Robin thought… y’know, that maybe he never would.”

Bruce hadn’t physically moved at all beside Alfred, but just looking at him made the cave feel a few degrees colder.

“Robin told them everything. And it hurt the whole way through. But he didn’t-“ Tim sucked in a wet breath, “He didn’t want to. He didn’t want to, but he did, because it hurt too much, and he wasn’t allowed to sleep, and he wasn’t allowed to eat, and they kept giving him these needles, and they kept him on an electric table, and he couldn’t get out. It just – it just hurt too much.”

“Tim,” Dick started, clearly realizing that whatever this was, it was going too far.

“And they told him,” Tim didn’t stop though, speech thin but still tripping along faster and faster, “They told him Bruce wouldn’t want Robin back, after a betrayal like that. They filmed everything, all the time, and they said they sent it to Bruce, and that he wouldn’t be coming anymore. So Harley said… maybe Robin ought to be somebody else instead.”

“Sir.” Alfred said, at the same moment that Dick repeated the _Tim _much more forcefully. Bruce didn’t make any sign he’d heard Alfred, steadfast in his listening.

“Batman did show up. Eventually.” Tim said, then lapsed into a long silence.

Dick broke it with a reluctant question, “How long… how long did it take?”

“I don’t know.” Tim said, the drum of his foot tapping on the carpet beating fast and frantic, “Felt like a while, though.” A breath, “They told him it was about a month, but it sort of felt longer than that.” Another pause as he thought about it, “But I guess Jay-Jay wasn’t really sleeping, so.”

“And… the Joker?”

“He, uh…” Tim cleared his throat, “He slipped on some water, got caught in some wires. Electrocuted himself on the way down.” A tiny, almost surprised laugh escaped, “He died from _shock_.” Tim crowed, like it was the funniest joke he’d told.

Dick waited until the laughter subsided before saying, “But you told Bruce that _you _killed him.”

Alfred could hear the small, nervous smile in Tim’s voice as he said, “No I didn’t.”

“Tim,” Dick was fighting frustration, “I really need you to be honest with me.”

Tim fell silent. And Alfred’s disappointment that this might be the end of their progress was carried on his guilt for wanting to pry. Perhaps he wouldn’t be quite so invested, quite so concerned, if the boy in the study shared less of a resemblance to the Tim Drake that they all knew.

When Tim spoke again it was quiet, and a little pleading, “Can I ask you something?”

Dick’s reply was immediate, “Of course.”

“If you… If you had to choose.” Tim said, struggling to get the words out, “Between dad and... the clown-” 

Bruce, in his first real reaction of the evening, stiffened beside Alfred. Alfred laid a hand on his shoulder in silent assurance.

“Like,” Tim was searching now, like he was trying to explain himself but couldn’t get the words right, “You have to pick the clown, right? Even if… even if it’s going to make dad hate you for it. Even if you have to get sent away for it - right?”

He was genuinely asking, and Alfred did not envy Dick’s position in answering it. Although Alfred knew what his own answer would be, no matter the circumstance. Bruce’s life had always meant more to Alfred than his ideals. It was the greatest act of selfishness Alfred would allow himself. And he would allow it a million times over, if necessary.

But Alfred had years of resolve accompanying him. The boy in the study did not.

“What’s worse? Making Batman hate you or making the Joker proud?” Tim sounded like he really didn’t know anymore. “If you had to choose.” He repeated.

“I wouldn’t.” Dick said evenly, “We do what we do so that nobody has to die, no matter how horrible. There’s always a third option.”

“You don’t understand.” Tim said, and there was something angry in the clipped way he spoke, “I’m saying you _have_ to.”

Dick was calm, “And I’m saying that nothing is that black and white.”

“Just tell me _who_.” Tim’s voice began to raise, “Which one is the right one?”

“Neither.” Dick said.

“Which one? _Which one!?_” The sound fluctuated, Tim had risen from his seat and was moving across the room as he repeated the question, “Which clown? Which dad?” He began shouting, “The gun is in your hands and it has to be fired so which man playing dress-up do you choose?”

“I _wouldn’t_.” Dick insisted in the ensuing scuffle. From the sound of it Tim had lashed out, trying to drive home his point to get Dick to see reason.

“You have to!” Tim shouted, even as Dick wrestled him to the ground - as gently as he could, but still - with an audible thud.

“No, you don’t.” Dick was keeping his voice under careful control. “The gun doesn’t have to be fired.”

“Yes it does!”

“Drop it, throw it away.”

“I _can’t_.” Tim’s voice cracked into a sob.

“Yes you can.”

Alfred moved then. This had gone too far, and he would not stand by. Bruce stopped him with a hand on Alfred’s arm.

“Alfred.” He said, and there was a command in it, and an emphasis that told Alfred he was trying to convince himself as well, “He’s not _ours_.”

The words came easy, “He’s not our enemy, either.” Alfred informed him. “Don’t treat the boy like one.”

When Alfred opened the door it was to Tim laughing, loud and breathless, even as his chest hiccupped with sobs and tears streaked down his face. He was on his back on the carpet, one hand pinned to his torso by Dick. The other flung upwards in a sharp arc. Two fingers outstretched in mime of a pistol, aimed at the center of Dick’s forehead.

Tim’s arm shook, and he was biting his bottom lip hard enough to turn it white in an effort to muffle the laughs that were still pulled from him. Like he was trying to stop a tide.

“Tim.” Dick spoke slow and calm, “You can let it go.”

Tim closed his eyes tightly, only catching his breath long enough to whisper, “I can’t.”

“You can.”

Tim’s next breath sounded like it rattled his lungs, “But I didn’t.”

His hand dropped suddenly, like it was made of lead, to cover his eyes. Like he wanted to block it all out. All that was visible was his mouth, caught in a twisted smile and grimace and something that simply bared his teeth in humorless savagery.

“I don’t like this story.” Tim said feebly.

Alfred knelt by Dick’s side as Tim slowly went limp, less of a conscious submission and more like something bone-weary and exhausted had revealed itself from behind a flimsy curtain.

~

**Tim**

Dick left eventually, after a few murmured words with Alfred. Tim couldn’t hear past the roaring in his ears. The pounding of his heart. Even as his body went slack his chest stayed tight. Unable to stop.

Alfred was sat beside him on the carpet, even though it was probably hell on his knees. Tim registered faintly that Alfred was asking if he wanted to go to his room. Take a rest.

The idea made Tim’s limbs feel heavy. He shook his head.

Tim didn’t think about the operating theatre that Joker made into a twisted facsimile of a happy home. Didn’t think about performing to rows of towering empty seats for days and days.

Tim said, “I was right, wasn’t I?”

Tim said, “I had it right. I _had _to be right.”

Something clicked, audibly. Was turned off.

And Alfred said, “You were.”

~

**Barbara**

She wasn't sure if he'd even blinked in the last hour or so.

Tim was lying on top of his duvet, limbs splayed like a dropped toy, eyes glassy like a doll's. Barbara actually refreshed her feed a couple times just to make sure there was no problems with the stream. She tapped a finger on her desk in thought. She should be calling Bruce about this. Discussing their findings, figuring out their next steps.

But instead she watched Tim through cameras that the original would’ve spotted immediately. At first she’d treated that with a tiny amount of derision. The gap in skill level between the two was practically a ravine. Thinking on it a little more though, this version of Tim probably never had to worry about people spying on him from the comfort of his own home.

Therein lay the conflict. The thing that stopped her from reaching out to Bruce to tell him that she’d pinpointed the machine that had made the swap, if not the actual method to reverse the process. Because she had compiled and examined all the necessary data, had read textbooks worth of multiverse theory until it felt like her brain was spilling out of her ears, combed through endless lines of code, until she could at least get a tiny grasp of exactly what had happened.

Yet the closer she came to the answers, the sooner they would have to actually put a plan into motion.

And was it ethical, moral, the objectively _right_ thing to do to send Tim back to a universe where he might be sent to Arkham?

On the one hand, it wasn’t their decision. Tim was in the wrong universe, he should go back to the right one. And whatever happened after that was out of Barbara’s hands.

But on the other, they had a reasonable amount of evidence that Tim would return to the hospital. A place he clearly didn’t want to be, a place that clearly hadn’t helped him much. It would be like locking him in there herself, even if she wasn’t physically holding the key.

And still they were only operating from Tim’s account. There was so much she didn’t know, or that she couldn’t be sure of. Maybe Arkham _had_ helped. Maybe the hospital was different in the other universe. Maybe sending him there actually _was_ the best course of action.

There were too many variables.

Add that to the fact that she wasn’t sure it was even possible to perform the switch as cleanly as it had been the first time.

Jesus, he still hadn’t moved at all.

Barbara had connected to Tim’s headset before she’d put real thought into it. It was ridiculously easy, too. Since Tim was a heathen who never shut off his electronics, and had left his headset both on and charging on his desk. The laptop he kept at the manor hadn’t been used in months, both because Tim hadn’t been at the manor lately, and because he had a new one that was more heavily encrypted. Not impossible for Barbara to get into, but she hadn’t had a reason to try yet, so she’d left him to it.

This old one, comparatively, was a piece of cake.

“Tim.” She spoke into the mic. No reaction. She raised the volume on the headset and repeated herself. Watching as he blinked, seemed to come online.

He rose slowly from the bed and spoke to the room. Barbara hadn’t installed mics, but she saw him clearly mouth a _hello?_

“_Tim_.” She emphasized, “The headset.”

He approached the desk with hesitation, but eventually reached for the headphones, putting them over his ears and raising a hand to unconsciously adjust the mic. "Barbara?"

“Hey.”

He winced at the volume, and Barbara quickly turned it down for him. “Sorry about that.” She said.

"Are you a ghost?" He didn’t seem very upset about this prospect. “In the… like a ghost in the… computer machine?”

“No, I’m not. I’m just…” What the hell _was_ she doing? “I just called to catch up.”

“Oh, good.” He sat on the grubby office chair. His hands were still on the headset, as if trying to keep it in place. “I haven’t seen you since I got back.”

“No, yeah. I’ve been - I’ve been busy.”

“Oh, okay.” Tim said, as if this was a perfectly fine excuse. “It’s nice to talk to you. How’s school? Al told me you’re at the police academy now.”

“Uh,” Barbara stalled, “It’s… fine.”

“You’re probably doing great there.” And he was still quiet, still subdued, but he was genuine when he said, “You were always good at school stuff. I probably wouldn’t have passed seventh grade if it wasn’t for you.”

Barbara found that hard to believe, “Don’t sell yourself short, shorty.”

“I’m serious,” Tim gave a tiny smile, “You basically taught me how to multiply. You didn’t have to do that.”

“Did you…” Barbara put some pieces together, “You weren’t in school?”

“Missed fifth and sixth grades, c’mon you know this.” Tim said easily, “Ol’ Shifty Steve kept disappearing on me, and it wasn’t like anybody else was gonna pay rent.”

Barbara watched through the camera as Tim curled up on the office chair, fingers fiddling with the mic on his headphones. Barbara knew she might be giving herself away, so tried to ask as casually as possible, “Where was your mom, anyway?”

Tim shrugged, then said, “Dunno.” Into the mic when he remembered it was an audio call, still not knowing Barbara was watching him.

“Guess she left when she could. I don’t really…” He frowned. “I think I remember her, though. A little bit. She sang me lullabies.”

“_Janet_ sang you lullabies?” Barbara repeated.

Tim gave an odd look. “Who’s Janet?”

Before Barbara could formulate a proper response, she was saved by a notification dinging from Tim’s laptop. Distracted, he swiped the trackpad and the screen lit up. Barbara quickly screen shared whatever it was to her own computer.

“What’s… Battlefield?” He scrunched his nose at the idling wizard character in the middle of the screen. A notification box had popped up, asking if he wanted to continue playing.

“You’ve never played _Battlefield_?” Barbara couldn’t keep the incredulousness from her voice. Because their Tim had been all over that kind of thing. Wizards and Warlocks, Battlefield, any tabletop or MMORPG he could get his hands on. Barbara had long since understood that if there was a game in which Tim could make his character wear a cloak and cast some spells, he was in.

She and Tim had played together for a bit online a couple years ago. Back when they were, well. Still busy, but less stressed. Her character wasn’t as maxed out as his, because she usually only played with Tim whereas Tim had a whole guild full of people willing to grind out a couple levels with him. Also she didn’t care enough to game the system and make herself too OP. Also Tim would’ve accused her of cheating.

Out of nostalgia, or maybe a whim, Barbara loaded up her own account.

Tim was trying to get his wizard to move around the screen, but was still only using the track pad and arrow keys so it was janky and slow-going. He grumbled under his breath, “I dunno how to operate this nerd stuff.”

Barbara laughed at that.

She found him in the spawn point with half a dozen other players milling around. “Here, let’s find a dungeon.”

He made a shocked noise when he realized it was her, “Wow Babs, your guy is a beefcake!”

“_Somebody_ has to balance the party.” Barbara smiled.

“What?”

“Never mind,” She laughed again, “C’mon follow me.”

Tim was… well he was shit, obviously. Even after Barbara talked him through the controls. Luckily his character never died since he was such a high level, but his hit-with-staff technique on the grounds that the spell hotkeys were too complicated didn’t yield amazing results.

But it was sort of fun. Barbara was never into the MMORPG thing like Tim had been, but she liked playing with him. Liked watching him take it all so seriously, strategizing like he was in actual combat situations. God, he used to be such a dweeb.

Now, well.

Now he seemed more lost than anything.

This Tim, though, was definitely enjoying himself. Even despite sucking terribly.

Barbara smiled as his character tried very hard to attack a door with fire when the open quick key was literally right there.

She thought idly about his comments on school.

“What do you want to do after this?” She asked.

He shrugged again, remembered again that it was an audio call, and said, “Dunno. You said the sky temple was cool, right?”

“No, not - I mean…” She trailed off, trying to find the words, “Do you want to go back to school? Or… you could probably homeschool if you wanted. But then are you thinking, like… college? A job? Did you…” She braced herself, ready for what might turn into an explosive conversation, “Did you want to be Robin again?”

Tim’s hands stilled on the keyboard. The camera only caught a bit of his face, turned to the computer as he was. His hair was too short now to cover the way his eyebrows drew together. It made him look younger.

“Dunno.” He said, and his voice was the same light casual cadence as before, but on her screens neither he nor his character moved a muscle.

“Have you thought about it at all?” Barbara asked, trying to stay gentle, “What you might do in the future? Who you want to be?”

“Dunno.” He said again.

Barbara waited.

“I’m not-” He started, but stopped himself. “I think I’m too different now. To be normal.”

“You don’t have to be normal. You just have to be yourself.”

He was quiet for a while, to the point where Barbara wasn’t sure if he’d heard her. His breath rattled through the mic.

“What if I don’t... want to be?” Tim sounded hollow.

Barbara stared through her screen, unsure of what to say.

_He’s just a kid._ She thought without warning.

He moved, finally, to wipe at his nose.

“Why haven’t you come to see me?” Tim asked suddenly. And Barbara couldn’t tell if he was angry or sad or tired.

She said, “I’m being objective about the situation.” Because she was. That’s what she’d decided. That was the role she would play. Observer. So that someone could keep their head about this whole thing. So someone could make the hard decisions when everyone else had been clouded by their own feelings.

“What situation?” Tim asked.

“Your situation.” She said honestly.

He didn’t balk at that. Instead pointing out, “But you’re talking to me now.”

“Objectively.”

Tim’s shoulders hunched on her feed, and a funny sort of giggle-snort crackled through the mic. He didn’t believe her, which was fair, because she was pretty sure she’d been straying from any objective standpoint she might’ve had for the past hour or two.

“Okay.” He said. And she could hear the small smile in it.

There wasn’t a firm decision made yet, Barbara told herself later. There was still the chance that sending him back was the right thing to do. Getting their own Tim back was definitely still the priority. And if push came to shove, Bruce would have the final word.

_I haven’t made a decision yet._ Barbara told herself, knowing full well that she already had.

~

**Tim**

Tim had started dreaming again. That was never a good sign.

He didn’t remember them once he woke up, but the feeling was there. Hands shaky, sheets damp with sweat, dizzy from breathing so hard and fast. The dreams were never vivid, but they were still haunting. They hurt like an invisible bruise. Like they’d left marks, clawing for him as he tried to get away.

He shouldn’t be having dreams like these anymore.

The lights were still on in his room, but the windows were dark. The glass reflecting back at him like a mirror. He stared at the boy in the bed through the glass, eyes wide and arms trembling, not realizing for a moment that it was him.

Tim thought maybe he had a dream about this once. A boy in a mirror that looked a little bit like him.

He was walking toward the window before he’d fully thought about it. The boy in the glass did the same. His breath ghosted against the pane, fogging it a little. The glass squeaked as he traced a spiral into it.

A thrum of something itched through his veins, making his spiral wobbly. His breath shook. He felt like he was trying to hold something underwater that just _wouldn’t drown_. Waiting for the moment it would surge up and pull him under instead.

He shouldn’t have told that story to Dick.

~

**Bruce**

Dick had called a family meeting. Which was only a little irksome, in that Bruce felt that he should be the one to call everyone in. But, regrettably, he had to concede that more people tended to show up when it was Dick.

“We need to talk about Tim.” Dick announced when everyone was seated at the table.

The Tim in question was currently helping Alfred with a few chores around the manor. Bruce knew Alfred would keep him in the opposite wing, making sure there was no chance that he would hear any damning information.

“Uh, which one?” Stephanie asked. She was still in uniform, as was Jason. Both of them flagrant in their display of how much they didn’t care about Bruce’s rules or general state of mind.

Damian spoke up from where he was idly sketching at the other end of the table, he was clearly bored, but also clearly wanted a say in whatever was being discussed. “Crazy Drake.”

“Under no circumstances are we calling him that.” Bruce said sternly.

Dick, wisely, moved along, “How are we getting him back?” He directed the question mostly to Bruce. A warning in his eyes. He knew Bruce was working on it, and was only sharing progress reports with Barbara, and he wasn’t happy. “And I mean that in both senses of the phrase. How are we getting our Tim back here, and how are we getting this Tim back there?”

“Can we just call him Crazy Drake?” Damian said, “It would help to differentiate.”

“No.” The snapped response came from Jason, who was tense despite having propped his combat boots on the table and crossed his arms in the picture of casual.

Dick said, “Okay, look. This is just to figure out a plan on how to get them both to their right universes.”

Stephanie frowned and looked around, “Where is he anyway?”

“With Alfred.” Bruce said.

“Ah, so Alfred conveniently doesn’t get a vote.” Jason said, bitter despite his flippant tone.

“Alfred volunteered.” Bruce ground out.

Jason leaned further back in his chair, tilting it a little, “But who instituted the watchdog policy in the first place?” He was just doing this to get on Bruce’s nerves, Bruce knew. Jason thrived on dramatics, especially if they could be employed to make Bruce’s life harder than it needed to be. “Has that kid even gone _outside_ since the gala? Actually, scratch that. He was only ever in cars or banquet halls, he hasn’t been outside since he _got here_.”

“He knows not to leave the manor.” Bruce said lowly.

Jason raised his eyebrows at that, and glanced around the table as if making sure everyone else had heard the same thing.

“So, are we all just _not_ going to talk about it?” Jason said.

“There’s nothing to talk about.” Bruce said firmly, leveling Jason with a warning glare.

“Sure, sure,” Steph said sarcastically, “Not like you’re basically keeping him prisoner or anything.”

“Nobody is keeping anybody prisoner.” Dick said, calming the waters, “This Tim is… he has issues. We can protect him better if we can keep an eye on him.”

“_Are _you protecting him?” Jason demanded, “Because it seems like you’re all just waiting until he goes nuts and starts trying to murder everyone.” He turned to Bruce, intentionally divisive, “I think we should be thanking the kid, he did his universe a favor by axing the clown.”

“It’s not that he killed the Joker.” Dick rubbed his eyes tiredly, “It’s that he killed at all.”

“Half the people in this room have killed before!” Jason argued, gesturing between himself, Damian, and Cass, who’s gaze turned stony.

“The real Tim wouldn’t.” Cass said, “He would never.”

“The _real_ Tim?” Steph repeated, “I’m sorry, is this one _imaginary_?”

“He’s not _ours_.” Bruce said, a reminder to himself just as much as it was to them, “We’re trying to get ours back.”

Dick nodded, just slightly, “This Tim doesn’t belong here. He needs to go back to his own universe, and his own family.”

Jason took his boots off the table, letting them hit the carpet so he could lean forward in his seat. “The family that locked him up in an _insane asylum,_ are you serious?” Jason was inching closer and closer to rage with every minute, “If we send him back he’s going to fucking rot in that place.”

“We can’t _help _him, Jason.” Dick said firmly, “He’s - look we’re all aware that something is wrong with… something is wrong. We don’t have the resources to -”

“So he’s better off in the loony bin, huh?” Jason bit, “Jesus, Dick, tell us how you really feel.”

“That’s not what I’m saying-”

“If that’s where all the crazy murderers are supposed to be why not throw _me_ in there, huh?”

“We would never do that to you, Jason.”

Jason whirled on Bruce, “But you’d do it to him?”

“He’s not-” Bruce started, “He already has a father. He can’t be our responsibility.”

Jason just glared, “Out of universe, out of mind, right?”

“Don’t pretend this is about him,” Dick said, a thread of bitter anger in his voice, “You never cared about Tim, you still don’t. You just want to keep this one because he’s basically _you_.”

Jason scoffed, “I want to keep this one because he’s sixteen and people won’t stop treating him like he’s gone off the deep end.”

Dick planted his hands on the table, “Exactly my point. Who are you really talking about?”

“Oh fuck off.” Jason said.

“You need to figure out if this is you trying to make up for the past or if you actually care.”

“You’re one to talk.” Jason retorted, “Don’t think we all just ignored how you suddenly became brother of the fucking decade only _after_ I died. And you’re right, I don’t give a shit whether our Tim gets back or not, and he probably doesn’t either, considering he’s been avoiding everyone for nearly a year. But this one stays.”

“He _switches accents _when he talks to you, Jason.” Dick pointed out, “You can’t say he’s not putting on an act.”

“Or maybe he’s switching accents when he talks to _you_. If he grew up in crime alley, it’s probably more his ‘real’ speaking voice than any upper-class imitation he uses around you assholes.” Jason crossed his arms.

“Either way,” Dick insisted, “He’s clearly putting up a front. Anybody would be suspicious.”

“It’s called code-switching, idiot.” Jason snapped, “Our Tim didn’t do it because _our_ Tim grew up in a higher tax bracket and stayed there his whole life. _This_ one had to adapt. There’s nothing malicious about it. Stop treating him like a fucking alien just because he’s trying to fit in.”

The room went quiet at that, Jason leaned back in his chair, watching the room as if waiting for someone to stage an attack.

“Get the replacement back or leave him in the other universe,” Jason said with finality, “I don’t give a shit. But this one is staying.”

“I think he should stay too.” Steph spoke up. “I mean, getting ours back is a given, obviously. But we can’t send the other one back knowing where he’ll end up.”

Bruce pinched the area between his brows, this could get messy. When he inhaled to speak, Jason’s gaze cut over to him, and Bruce could tell that no matter what he was about to say, it wouldn’t go well.

Cass, quiet until now, cut in. “Ours should come back.” She said, staring at Bruce thoughtfully, “And the other one should go away.”

Steph looked to Cass in surprise, hair whipping over her shoulder. “What?”

“He already feels…” She trailed off, unable to find the words. “It wouldn’t make our Tim feel… good. If we kept them both.”

“He would understand, though.” Steph said, “He wouldn’t throw a bitch-fit about it. He would know that we’re helping someone who needs it.”

“I think he wouldn’t give a shit.” Jason volunteered, “He’s already extricating himself from the whole family dynamic by avoiding everyone all the time. It’s poetic justice to replace the replacement.”

“He would give a shit,” Steph said sharply, “But he would understand it’s for the greater good.”

“But maybe this time,” Cass said slowly, “Just once… Tim could be, greater than the good.”

Jason barked out a laugh, “You want to send other Tim back to Arkham just because keeping him _might_ hurt original Tim’s _feelings_?”

“He doesn’t – he _deserves_ –“ Cass cut herself off, frustrated. “He should be important. At least once.”

“He _is_ important.” Steph said, “That’s why we’re going to do everything we can to bring him back. We’re all in agreement on that, right?” Nods from everyone, save for Jason who shrugged, and Damian who scoffed. “And sure, he might be a little upset that his doppelganger is here too, but we can figure it out. It’s far from the worst beginning to a brotherly bond Tim’s had. And – and he and Jason get along great now.”

Jason laughed mockingly.

“Nobody is trying to kill him anymore, is what I’m saying.”

“Trust me, Brown. I am merely biding my time.” Damian had a way of speaking sometimes where Bruce wasn’t sure if he was trying to make a joke or not.

“My _point is_.” Stephanie steamrolled, “Tim would understand. Give the two of ‘em a few years and they’ll get along great.”

“Good optimism, Steph.” Dick said, “But how exactly do you plan on explaining two identical Tim Drake’s to the media?”

“The Prestige.” Jason said dramatically, solely for derailment purposes, “They trade off living a single life.”

“Shut up, no.” Stephanie retorted, “We’ll say they were… twins. Separated at birth.”

“And both of them were _conveniently_ given the name ‘Tim Jackson’?”

“Stranger things have happened in Gotham!”

Bruce would not tell them just how easy it would be to incorporate this version of Tim into their universe. Whether going with Stephanie’s ridiculous plan, forging birth certificates and adoption records and family histories – not too difficult if you had enough money to throw around. And Bruce had lots to throw around. Or simply telling the truth. The multiverse malfunction had happened to Tim Drake in Wayne Enterprises with a machine that was legally documented and explicitly meant to contact other universes. They could play it off like the machine had simply brought the other Tim Drake into their universe without the swap, and that there was no conceivable way of sending him back.

Bruce said none of this. Because saying it would require thinking it, and Bruce wouldn’t allow himself to consider any options other than the one he had deemed correct. Doubt would break him, and so he had to have no doubts.

The rest were still arguing.

“How would you feel?” Cass was asking Steph, iron in her words.

Stephanie mockingly thought about it, “Uh, I don’t know, how would _you_ feel if the only family you’ve ever known decided to send you back to an asylum without even giving you a chance?”

“You’re not thinking about ours.” Cass edged closer to a shout.

“And you’re not thinking about the one _literally_ here right now!” Stephanie said, “You wrote him off the first time you saw him because he, what, was acting kind of weird?”

“He is _empty_.” Cass emphasized.

Stephanie threw her hands up, “He’s still a person!”

Cass stalled at that, searching for something in Stephanie’s expression. Stephanie put a hand on her arm, “Look, I don’t know what you did or didn’t see, but we should give him a chance. At least.”

Cass’ brow furrowed in thought.

Damian spoke up from his corner, deciding now to voice his opinion. “Obviously any Drake is too divisive to keep. I say we send this one back, leave the original in his new universe, and move on.”

Dick sighed heavily, “Damian.”

Damian turned defensive, “What? The old one was less than useful, he got himself sent to another universe. Why should we rescue him from his own mess? And the new one is worse than the original, _he_ got himself sent to Arkham.”

“Jesus Christ.” Stephanie muttered under her breath.

“Todd is a sentimental weakling and Brown is deluded by her asinine crush.”

Jason’s “What?” Was drowned out by Stephanie’s much more punctuated “_What_!?”

Damian raised his chin, “His mental development stalled as a preteen, Brown is just excited she can groom him into the perfect boyfriend that the old one never was.”

Stephanie shot out of her chair at that, “Okay, that’s it.” She snapped, at the same moment Dick said a commanding, “Damian, that’s _enough_.”

“Grayson you agree with me that he doesn’t belong here.” Damian insisted, “Leave the Drake’s to their crazy dimension and everything will be how it should-“

“He’s not _fucking _crazy!” Jason stood suddenly, his chair scraping as it slid across the floor, loud through the dining hall.

Damian recovered fastest, “Speak a little louder, Todd. I don’t think Drake heard you from across the multiverse.”

“You shut up, you spoiled little demon.” Jason made no move to lower his voice, “He’s not crazy, he’s fucking _traumatized_, assholes. There’s a _difference_.”

The room was quiet at that.

Bruce took the opportunity to speak. “We don’t currently have a method to recreate the swap.” He lied. “But progress is being made. You’ll all be notified when it happens.”

This wasn’t the news Bruce had intended to share. And he could tell from Dick’s suspicious glance and Jason’s scoff that neither of them fully believed him.

But Bruce needed to set the universes right, and with his children all firm in opposing stances, he couldn’t risk the likelihood of sabotage.

Cass stared Bruce down from across the table, and he could feel her thinking. But he trusted her to keep quiet. After all, she wanted to set the universes right too.

~

**Tim**

The quiet girl wanted to hang out with him. And it wasn’t a big deal, but Tim hadn’t seen her for a while, and he had forgotten her name. He sort of hoped she might reintroduce herself, but she was a woman of very few words.

She looked at him like he was up to something.

She made him nervous.

She found him in the closet. His closet. The one full of clothes he’d never worn and boxes filled with photos of people he didn’t know.

Only after he’d cleared a space and got inside and closed the door could he breathe a sigh of relief. There was nobody here to ask hard questions. Nobody watching him through dark windows or fake smiles.

It was something about being in the manor, Tim thought. Something about being home made him feel safe, but also scrutinized. Investigated. Not just by other people, but also by himself. He couldn’t help himself _thinking_…

Like how it occurred to him that he shouldn’t like small dark spaces as much as he does. He shouldn’t find comfort in the soft darkness, the enclosed walls.

But this space was different than that one, Tim reasoned. He could leave this one whenever he wanted. And really, even when he was in that one it was almost better than being outside of it. At least inside that one the Joker wasn’t watching him-

Tim jerked back at the thought just as much as the sudden movement of the door. And there she was, the quiet girl. And he still didn’t remember her name.

She didn’t say anything, just stared at him for a moment. Tim felt that feeling again, like he was being examined. Then she climbed in to the closet with him, closing the door behind her. Tim pulled his legs in closer to himself to make room. She sat across from him, leaning against the opposite wall.

“Hi.” She said finally.

“Hi,” Tim parroted. The slats in the closet door let in gentle strips of warm light, illuminating fractions of her face. An inquisitive eye, half a brow, the corner of her mouth.

He was glad for the company. He felt like he was spending a dangerous amount of time in his own head.

~

**Cass**

He’d been right there.

Cass just stared. Fake Tim hadn’t moved an inch from one moment to the next, but still. He was there, and then not. That elusive part of him that lay underneath. It was _there_. The real Tim.

And Cass had only caught a glimpse, but one thing she knew for certain was that Tim was scared.

But it had faded. Like a hand pressed up against frosted glass, only to be pulled away. Nothing left but a rapidly fading outline.

She had to get him back.

“What are you thinking about?” She said.

“Huh?” And he was back to this. Even tiny movements nullified, void of anything that could telegraph to Cass exactly what he was feeling. The most she got was an interested tilt of his head, but that didn’t count. She had just done that.

“I go to dark places to think. Sometimes.” Cass explained. “What are you thinking?”

Tim hummed, “The other kid was here earlier. He said I couldn’t be Robin anymore. Again.”

Cass could tell he didn’t really care about that, though. Maybe he’d already given up on Robin, maybe he didn’t want it anymore. Either way, there was no reaction from him. Nothing to indicate he might feel one way or another about it.

“What are you _thinking_.” Cass emphasized. She didn’t want him to just relay things that had happened earlier that day. She wanted to know how he felt about them. She wanted to see what had disappeared.

Tim watched her with a blank stare. “I like your ribbon.” He said suddenly.

Cass liked the ribbon in her hair too, and allowed this attempt at small talk. Real Tim had always been better at stuff like this. Buttering people up and then asking the real questions when their guard was down. It was a fighting style she hadn’t yet learned, and she admired how deftly Real Tim would wield his words.

“Steph helped.” Cass said.

Tim smiled a little, “She’s good at that stuff. Hair stuff. Did you see hers is purple now?”

“Yes.” Cass had functioning eyes.

“Well, some of it. Just the ends.” Tim gestured to demonstrate. “She’s nice, huh?”

“Yes.” Cass agreed. “Are you?”

Tim paused, shifting uncomfortably, and _there_. A sliver of something, but gone as quick as it came.

“I don’t know.” He shrugged. But there was nothing in the movement. He was like a puppet moving on strings.

Cass frowned, frustrated, and wished not for the first time that Real Tim was here. He knew how to put words together in ways that made sense, clever combinations that got what he wanted.

Tim started to get up, reaching a hand out towards the doorknob. Cass moved faster though, putting a firm hand on it to keep it closed. Tim flinched back, and there was a flash of hesitance there. Cass thought frantically about what she might say, how she might get that part of him back.

But her silence, it turned out, was just as effective.

Tim sat back, knees to his chest.

Inside the closet stretched a long moment of silence, long enough that Cass could almost see Tim thinking, but it was faint. Mostly he just looked like he was waiting for something.

“Do you know,” Tim said suddenly, “How people get hypnotized by spirals?”

Cass narrowed her eyes in confusion.

“I think it’s because it’s out of their control.” Tim said, and his stare was blank, and his inflection was absent, but Cass felt like he was trying to tell her something. “It’s always moving, y’know. They can’t do anything except look at it. And there’s this illusion it creates, where it seems like it’s coming towards you or going away from you, and so you have to pay attention to it.”

He spun a finger slowly over the fabric of his pants, “And it’s cyclical, you know. So it never stops. Sort of relentless. And you can’t do anything except look at it.”

Cass had no idea what he was trying to tell her, but he continued anyway.

“It’s like… you don’t even know you’re helpless until you’ve already been taken away from your own head.” Tim said, then frowned like he was thinking, “Do you think that’s worse or better than choosing to leave?”

“What?”

“Maybe it doesn’t matter. Either way you leave the door open. Anybody could walk in.”

Cass didn’t know what she was supposed to say, and so said nothing. Tim was lost in thought, or lost in _something_. Or maybe nothing. Cass was frustrated that she couldn’t tell.

Among the clothes piled on the floor of the closet was band shirts and ironic graphic tees that the original Tim had stopped wearing a while ago. The suits and dress shirts that made up his current wardrobe had mostly been relocated to Tim’s new apartment.

This place was like a time capsule, Cass thought. Already it felt like so long ago that any of this actually belonged to Tim. She felt a little bad for stepping all over it, even if it was just laundry. This Tim seemed to have no such qualms about it though, piling old and new in haphazard nests, adding new material on a whim. Cass spotted the white tailcoat that Jason had used to disguise himself as a server lying crumpled atop one of the piles.

Time for a different approach.

“What are you feeling?” Cass asked, trying to put enough emphasis on the words that he would understand her meaning.

He made no sign that he’d heard her at first. Continuing to stare somewhere far away.

“I shouldn’t like dark places, I don’t think.” He said suddenly, and there it was again. That tiny flicker of _something_. Something nervous, and scared, but _real_.

“Why not?” Cass pressed, leaning forward a little bit.

And ever so slowly, like streetlights flicking on in the dark, Cass watched Tim come back to himself.

~

**Tim**

“There was this fridge.” Tim said, “It wasn’t plugged in to anything, and it didn’t have any food in it. It was vintage,” He raised a shaky hand to demonstrate, “With the latch on the outside.”

He worried she might try to get him to explain, but she understood. Somehow that was worse.

“And… the inside?” She asked.

Tim felt something constrict around his throat. “It was dark.”

And he couldn’t explain, even if he wanted to. The words wouldn’t come out.

Like he was a sinking ship, unable to call for help, something that was almost a memory leaking through the boards, flooding him slowly.

Because the thing about remembering is that he never did it on purpose. He was just split, from one moment to the next, part of him there with the girl, part of him back in that room. Unable to get out.

He could feel the Joker’s hand around the collar of Jay-Jay’s tailcoat, dragging him through the dusty concrete with the bored demeanor of someone taking out the garbage. Tim could see Jay-Jay’s shoes, his legs, his hands, twisting and flailing uselessly against that iron grip, unable to catch his breath long enough to muster up any real struggle.

And it wasn’t so much remembering, as Tim _knowing_ that the Joker wanted Jay-Jay awake at all hours. Awake and alert and deprived and half-mad from exhaustion. Tim knew that Harley would give Jay-Jay special medicine after dinnertime – whether or not Jay-Jay had eaten didn’t matter – and the medicine would keep him laughing for hours until breakfast. Tim knew that Joker didn’t want to listen to Jay-Jay’s hysterics that loud or that long, and that the curtain hiding the metal table didn’t muffle the noise enough.

And Tim felt the burn in his lungs when Joker put Jay-Jay into the white box and closed the door. Tim felt the panic as Jay-Jay was steeped from skin to bone in complete darkness. He heard the latch close, loud over the laughter.

Tim felt Jay-Jay’s lungs claw for air like desperate and merciless hands, but each new breath left him just as fast. Heartbeat pounding in his chest and fists pounding at the door, slamming against it with his hands and his head and his shoulders because he _couldn’t breathe_. Chest fluttering in hysterics and a panicked grab for oxygen, and he couldn’t get out. The laughter echoing in the small box.

The panic that he would die there constricted his aching ribs as he pressed his hands and forehead against the hard plastic and pleaded with gasping breaths as tears and mucus dribbled down his face and into his open mouth, smearing against the inside of the door.

And he knew, in some part of himself, that the seam of the door wasn’t airtight. He was in no real danger of suffocating. It was just him. His body. Laughing too hard to pull in a substantive breath. And he couldn’t stop, because Joker and Harley had taken it from him. Methodically. With shocks and serums and _boxes _until even his lungs didn’t belong to him. He couldn’t stop shaking, he couldn’t stop laughing. His body wasn’t his. Not anymore.

Words tried to make their way out of his throat but were mangled by the twisted shape of his mouth, unable to get enough breath behind the sound. But he could hear it in his mind, screaming in his head, somehow louder than the drum of his heart and the rush of his throat spitting up air. Begging to be let out, please let him out. Screaming that he couldn’t breathe. He _couldn’t breathe_.

~

**Bruce**

The sound of breaking glass cut through Bruce’s concentration like a knife.

He stood quickly without thinking, abandoning Barbara’s assorted notes and theories on his desk and leaving his study in a flurry. His blood sang in his veins as he pinpointed the closed door of Tim’s room. This struck him as wrong in a strange sort of afterthought as he climbed the stairs and gripped and twisted the knob.

A closed door wasn’t an oddity for their Tim. He’d always liked his privacy. But this one kept it open, was antsy when in a closed room. The differences imprisonment made.

What was immediately obvious was the chill. A pane in the window had been punched out, letting in the cold autumn breeze. On the floor behind the bed was Tim, pinned to the carpet by a wide-eyed but adept Cass. Tim was breathing hard into the fibres of the carpet, but had stopped struggling.

The most concerning part to Bruce though, was the shard of glass he was clutching tightly in his hand. Rivulets of blood dripped onto the carpet, smearing along his arm as Cass tried to wrestle it from him as gently as possible.

Bruce moved quickly, kneeling by the two of them. “What happened.” He directed to Cass.

She just glanced to him, shook her head a little.

Bruce put a hand on Tim’s arm, his breaths were coming fast, the hand not clutching the window shard was white knuckled on the short tufts of carpet. His eyes were staring but not entirely seeing the dark red stain on the carpet.

“Tim,” Bruce said gently, placing his hand over Tim’s, “You need to let go.”

Tim shook his head against the carpet, the skin by his temple began to redden from the friction. If anything, his grip tightened, the sharp edges of the glass driving further into his palm and fingers, more red welling up to drip to the carpet.

Carefully, Bruce held his wrist with one hand, and used the other to pry Tim’s fingers slowly away from the shard. He ignored the blood that smeared on his hands, heart thudding in his ears at the sight.

Tim began to struggle again in earnest, trying to pull his hand from Bruce’s grip, trying to get out of Cass’ hold. “Don’t-“ His voice was punched out and panicked, “I need – I need.”

“It’s okay.” Cass was saying above him, trying to calm him while keeping him immobile. She looked guilty. “It’s okay.”

“Please don’t-“ Tim begged, “Don’t. I can’t - please.” He was cut off by a hiccup of breath.

“It will be alright, Tim.” The words felt like ash in Bruce’s mouth. And he finally managed to pry the piece out of Tim’s palm, slippery and warm with blood.

Bruce caught Tim’s eye then. Wide and wild and filled with so much terror that Bruce felt it like a scream beneath his lungs.

Tim inhaled a gasp and-

~

**Jay Jay**

His hand hurt where it was clenched behind his back. Fingers curled so tightly the fabric of the glove pinched at his skin and dug into his knuckles. His eyes watched the clown.

The operating theatre had been decorated like a child’s dream. Tables and chairs and floral patterns arranged like some kind of set piece. Impossibly large and garishly colorful letter blocks stacked by the entryway. But it didn’t cover the molding concrete walls. The distant drips of leaky pipes. The soft scuffle of rats.

That entryway yawned open behind him. The mouth of a beast in the dark. Watching. Waiting for Jay-Jay to try running to it. To see how far he would get before the clown was upon him again.

Because the clown was never far. He flitted about, talking and rambling and keeping one eye on Jay-Jay. Laying a hand on his shoulder, in his hair, on his face. The weight of it made Jay-Jay want to flinch, the residual heat he could feel through the gloves made his skin feel too tight, like bugs had burrowed in deep, like they were trying to get out.

The tension in Jay-Jay’s muscles was a guitar string about to snap.

“Play the song for us, puddin’ pop!” Joker grinned, gesturing for Harley to arrange the record player.

Jay-Jay didn’t protest, even though he wanted to. He stood, stock still, in the center of the room, grin in place. Eyes on the clown.

The entryway behind him watched as he remained still. He would never make it in time. He’d learned that by now.

The entryway was as real as a painting in the wall. A trick of the light, a trick of the dark.

Jay-Jay had been awake for a while, but his eyes would not close. His attention would not wane. His smile would not waver.

Even if he tried, he couldn’t. His body stopped him, before he could even think about it.

He couldn’t get out. Not in any capacity. He couldn’t leave this place, but he couldn’t leave his own experience of it either. The smile and the unpredictability of Joker forced Jay-Jay to be present at all times. To be aware, constantly, relentlessly, of every little thing.

He couldn’t get out.

Harley had begun playing the record, and the first few lilting notes echoed through the cold space.

Jay-Jay felt the muscles in his leg begin to shake, from fear or exhaustion, but he didn’t dare move. Sometimes the medicine Harley gave him made him shiver uncontrollably. Sometimes he would twitch, violently, after the shocks. Joker never liked that, so Jay-Jay kept every part of himself tense and as still as he could.

Joker had played this song a few times now, and each time was a little different. Sometimes he just wanted to listen, sometimes he would want Jay-Jay to put on some kind of performance. Jay-Jay had refused, at first. But that had always ended badly. Jay-Jay never knew what the Joker wanted, so he kept his eyes locked on the clown in the same way a person might watch a spider on the wall.

It was much scarier when you couldn’t see it.

A child’s voice crooned through the speaker. Echoing through the theatre.

_I’ve written a letter to daddy_

_His address is heaven above_

It was undoubtedly a sick joke he was playing on Jay-Jay. Undoubtedly the kind of thing he would find funny. Jay-Jay watched as Joker closed his eyes and tilted his head back, as if soaking in the music. He wasn’t. Jay-Jay knew he wasn’t.

_I’ve written ‘dear daddy, we miss you_

_And wish you were with us to love_

Joker leaned in to Jay-Jay’s space, so close Jay-Jay could feel the breath on his face, and Jay-Jay stared at the wall just behind Joker’s ear. But he still saw the leering grin, the lit up mania in his eyes. Jay-Jay’s heart quickened in his chest. He didn’t dare move. Didn’t dare breathe. Then Joker turned his head a little, brought up one gloved hand, and tapped a finger to his own cheek expectantly.

_Instead of a stamp I put kisses_

“Well?” He said, gleeful at Jay-Jay’s clear hesitation.

_The postman says that’s best to do_

Jay-Jay’s heartbeat was like a drum in his ears, and his hands shook by his sides. Then Joker’s wide grin began to narrow and the fear in Jay-Jay’s stomach jumped in his chest, sending him up on his toes and pressing his lips for a fraction of an awful awful second to the white skin. It was cool and clammy, like a corpse. Jay-Jay felt sick.

The Joker laughed, like he’d done something wildly funny, and snatched Jay-Jay’s gloved hands up in his own.

_I’ve written a letter to daddy_

_Saying ‘I love you’_

He pulled Jay-Jay in what could’ve generously been called a dance. Jay-Jay stumbled along, legs numb, hands trapped in Joker’s vice-like grip. He felt like a marionette. Like if Joker let go of him he might collapse to the floor, strings cut, exhausted. The click of their shoes on the concrete echoed with the music through the room.

The Joker’s cackling laughter nearly drowned out the song’s finale.

_I’ve written this letter to daddy,_

_Saying-_

“Saying?” Joker prompted

Jay-Jay, startled, looked up. And the unrestrained sadism in Joker’s expression made him wish he hadn’t. Joker hadn’t wanted him to talk before, only ever wanted him to smile and laugh at his jokes and do what he was told.

Jay-Jay didn’t want to say it, but he knew bad things would happen if he didn’t.

The words forced themselves out of him without his conscious say so, like his body was adamant that he survive, even if he didn’t want to. So he spoke, in a tiny, defeated whisper. Joining the happy warble of the child on the recording in a broken melody.

“I love you.”

The words ripped something from him as he spoke them, quiet as they were.

“Hmm?” Joker put a hand to his ear and tilted his head theatrically towards Jay-Jay, as if he hadn’t heard. Jay-Jay knew he’d heard.

Jay-Jay wondered if this was, at least in part, what the Joker wanted. Love, adoration, family. He’d spent this whole time with Jay-Jay and Harley, building up this sandbox to play in. Spent so much time, and so many hours here.

Much more likely, he just wanted Jay-Jay to suffer.

The words echoed loud in the silence after the song. “I love you. Daddy.”

And Jay-Jay hadn’t quite realized what he’d given up until he said it. Until he watched the Joker’s grin turn wide and splitting and victorious. Until he heard Harley’s happy applause and shouts for “Encore! Encore!” Until he felt something die in the space between his ribs.

It was an admission. Not of the truth, but of himself.

The Joker had threatened nothing this time because he didn’t need to anymore, and he knew it. And Jay-Jay had given himself to the clown. Jay-Jay felt his heart sink, his blood run cold, a freezing creeping horror clutching his lungs in a slow and merciless stranglehold.

Joker had him, wholly and completely. Jay-Jay was his.

“Bow for the audience Little Jay!” Joker simpered, and Jay-Jay turned to the seats above the operating theatre, empty and abandoned but sinister nonetheless.

He bowed, spine bending like a hinge. Harley’s lonely applause only made the space feel more barren.

There was no one else. No one else in the world except Jay-Jay and the Joker and Harley Quinn in a dirty theatre in an abandoned Arkham and there was no one else. Jay-Jay’s mind supplied him with images of an island surrounded by endless black sea. Sea full of dead bats. Nothing but Joker and Harley and Jay-Jay for always and eternity.

Jay-Jay watched as two, then three, then four dark spots appeared on the dirty concrete beneath him. It took far too long to realize that they were tears, that he was crying.

“Now go help your mother in the kitchen,” Joker said, already bored, “It’ll be dinner soon.”

Jay-Jay straightened up, wiped his eyes quickly on his sleeve, and walked with weak legs over to where Harley was making a show of putting on her apron.

His face hurt from smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *casually ignores the fact that jason did canonically get sent to arkham cause what the fuck*
> 
> i originally had a different ending in mind for this chapter but Jesus it's already a monster, so the resolution and stuff will have to be saved for the next btas!tim extravaganza. i hope the pacing and escalation feels natural up until the final segment, i wanted it to build up to the big flashback but at this point i've been staring at this too long and have no idea if it comes too soon or too slow
> 
> the title of this chapter and song in the jay-jay bit are both references to the 1962 horror/thriller "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?" you can watch a clip of the song "I've Written a Letter to Daddy" here:   
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QSswAnGlAs  
the movie itself is Extremely Unsettling, and ironically also features psychological torture and personality breaks. the reprise of the "written a letter to daddy" song is uhhh pretty spooky yall
> 
> anyway hope you enjoyed this lil foray into Heavy Angst. next time: father son bonding! (but don't let that fool you into thinking it's a happy time ahahahaaaa whoops)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm taking a lot of liberties with canon here, but rough timelines are:
> 
> Comics!Tim is sixteen and has just gone through the first arc of Red Robin. Bruce is back from the dead, Tim is a major figure in Wayne enterprises, he's attempting to strike out on his own, but still has a lot of stuff he's not dealing with.
> 
> BTAS!Tim is also sixteen and was institutionalised after the events of Return of The Joker. It's taken three years instead of the canon one, and he's not being treated by Leslie Thompkins.
> 
> hopefully it's clear which universe each chapter takes place in


End file.
